We now know who is involved.

 

They taught me how, but not when, to lie. The training was received with a smile not to be noticed by whatever uncomfortable adversary might move into the foreground and admit defeat in today's playground. The love and dignity, as having given our words a stem-frothing aspect, can (and will) no longer hold the wan target aloft, an occasion of plyable toy-wisdom particle fraud. A measure which is always of a unique ratio, is sure to batter in principled duos with the gently rising craft of one so belivid as meets the grace of tofts. The tradnastitive amalgam of trufe, replete inside olleyways abade the wainscotting, is sure to hold dramastic plauditures when easing a measure of cave-like operating injectives, but the wife of our minch-haus, flagrant and taudney, one could not help stressing, the hairline breaching above all whose nose is a shallow victim's paleface perch.

We are given to a wand's purr as the crapid effluvia is seen to dictate each flange's polymerized ovectic ransom. But the trime to a wolferd, adknowledged and fissured to a scrim of fare-thee-won'ts, is draining the pate of frofulent chimps as only Nelson can. But 'why?' is a count we fold, the drippage to pace Onan's wickery puffed stochastic floor. If ever the delay seen in fields should be felt as the disaster it isn't, then my martial plague, attenuated in frisky allotments, will hold a pin to the nape of infamy! A chersh! And feribault trash palates acleft the furbles! We train our own reducers and pick out jaunts with emaciated pleasers, the nub of all solemn ploughshares. Delighted we mask, but a sorry induction of our leaky wigstumps turns the entire village into a stable offering of intrepid histamine scamps.

You have eaten our papers. But our hope is for your filial accretion of a fine marbelized dust. The pelucrid vinitor abvolves crime to a light of weaves. And grow as it must, our dupe is foursquare operational as a blunted mood stems the tribe. The nose you crave is only ever our daily marketing plod, or so one vicious, winsome lad likes to pretend while home is approached with a keening holyferd nightgram of truth. A bezel or three will get you one. Our farmers approve of your likely liminal basking hut. But a brain? That's just too fucking hot!

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