This is the thing: some disregarder from the ends on days. 7 minutes.
Heaven, define irony. "You couldn't afford it." A mans.laughter, "How
are you doing today, beautiful." Beautiful, no name. No placed. In it
tedious exorciser. Bike. When did so distrust? Who is we? Polyamory.
Write one more time with feeling, mine, gut and *almost history* we.
Almost pleasing. Something in the dark will find me for you, and we
make too meek. There have been exactly 4 in 4 who. Advertise with it.
How do I know if we are related? Celebrate. Celibate. This shit. Ugh.
We have been written. Lampooning people who align themselves. Those.
Not even remotely crushing it, killing it, take a break, roll a hit. Over and
under. L. Love. Stalk options, get poetics. In, on, at. Not one with my humor.
I just need one person to like me. Good I've got the one.
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