Like balding and scalding things get burned and lessons get combed back, brushed
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out and in age, oldness lingers in folds on your forehead like stilletto
friskies, a cat cereal that threatens the can and the feeder. My real intention
is to paint a masterpiece in my cave, where I play dungeon master, beast and
have a singleness to keep the bald clan from caving in. Bears don't hibernate
in this region, so I can snore louder without disturbing someones sleep.
My real attitude is listening to the verbs over and over again-Those simple
minded ants, make more noise than real "ant chants"-an R.P. is basically
a man without a destination, and a man who carries all his baggage in one
locket-a complex disciple of hatred, but scalding hot when dismissed as
a "repeat complex"-that would be someone elses out, I raise the dead, and
wait for the target to place an "I" in-between, and don't pluralize the
one-it make have a bug on it.
Now that soup got cold-lets eat-make a commandment to "add" another century
of "making it"-and murder the revolution with bare chested monkey natives
from a bonifide country that doesn't pretend to Zen.
This Blog is tired, been in state of grace so long-my hair stopped growing
D.E.M.-05 P.S.-Anyone have any ideas to add to the possibility of an Ultrasonic
flying machine-or better yet a gyro that fits in the cups of your hand
that can power the whole world-for an instant at least-then it cools
to 92 degrees-