Well, enough I suppose. I shouldn't keep rolling in the gutter and brushing off on the postman. It's like engulfing someone in dour ash, and soon they may just sneeze the wrong way. I'd say "No more" if I believed it, but I'll cross my organs and try to keep my mind on pleasantries. One last thing: picket fences never yield enough time.
Well, there'll be some. Sitting on couches and standing on corners. Golly gosh. A mil-lion memories lying over some glaring hurdles. Incidentally, I'm bringing some mighty impressive springs for my daggy shoes. Oh and a positively optimistic smile.
If it weren't for the blind, I could observe the sky. Bastards. And if it weren't for fees and seas... Well, I was piecing together magazine pictures and piercing personalities, and mixing up cauldrons of improbable potions, but their pie charts have been comprehensively dwarfed, superseded and overshadowed by this lovely oven, with its produce of sweet biscuits and lame cakes.
Two generations can sing of one men guys, but one generation can sing of two, and he tries.
Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
-
The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
No comments:
Post a Comment