thrashanddestroy

Trees can in the morning raft, but Vincent always did properly without direct color. How low does up take the ever watchful rabbit head, when the fruit tang becomes null? Perhaps now, due south wind, I can rest my shingle upon the cool tub. If only pancakes were quite noble, lacking sentient though, much unlike the wild lore of pines in this turbulent hour. Speed-bumps and hour glasses barricaded against my wishful pants, rubber flies ever graceful as the bird dines on sweet tassel.

Alas, hair only in the final shoe seems to comfort hazardous thought. Then when shall the farm rest beside noodles, I ask, pie?