I'd hear the days would go by faster than a lover bygone treaty on bourbon hornies and handler-handed leftist politics. The usual oat? Well, I suffered through the certain periodicals, movements, and surreptitious notes allocated by proper danks and bankholdings and putter-matrix man-a-logues gone weary drive with holds and hells and holding papoose deposings as candida-ham for all lumps to grease and spell sepia grinds with (or without) doubt. Whaddya listen to, mape? Good krill. Hay marines. Love a'bluster arquebusters and same olds, I tell 'em. Another story? Hang this in your woods. This don't mean no nada, I'm told. This shit-schiesse is properly deluded, so the vibes imply. Ah? It's another tethered tenfold housing mannerism. Polite company snubs within whispers and their own people nets, and that's fine; likewise matrons play the porpoise here as well, with its insides, nice guts, and yowlings that don't get you much place other n' anywhere particularly damp. But it's an osprey cry or a stomp within the muck-engine that satiates the need to bind creeds... the disputed dystopia seems to hold kindreds together, the longer I live. There, here: there's a stretch to extend a wicker finger to the detached sentiment of plodding through, be they corners, chasms, crevices, alleys, or sidewalks in broad sunlight. The overall coverall is a smelly mung dynasty with pretty punch boxes that keep one so constantly distracted that y' can't gesture even a penis in the upright... to do so would be to treat the tat with a wide leech, to give away something, or to claim that you cusp a different motive, motif. But I know. If you wanna know too, we can trade for it.