Sunday, September 17, 2006

Umbillically through its beckoning door--Come Awn!

Uncomfortable lemon rack, I am up to my tits in swiss cheese. It ain't that difficult to imagine possible worlds out of this. Picture David Lewis, as seen above, high in the loom of gmy face with a nightgown stashed away in his lung? Did you? Well, then you're one step ahead of the daily diary of "off you go when we need you most," vehicles. Nightly. A bride of blondinstein. Nothing more to say her except that there is no "our father" prayer left in me. Dear "our father" ...I don't get it. Our father, of the spritely vesicles, let corn flakes change thy name.


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