what kinda image might i be promoting if i can’t get rid of all the evidence that places me at the scene of the crime? in some clever way, insentimentos: afloofayloufuei, a-where? a-somewhere. you saw me coming when that question mark came up, a-thing.
…and aha! knew a guy bordering close, borderwing rewards, and on that particular day that cycled another year for him to guard past his… ummm. well, embarrasses and is a good for nothin’ sort, don’t________. naut. not. not~}k]. ooooh, awvYoH. he. when you can’t remember the proper designia, just say he. old school, retro. fashion recyvles every 20 years, when we just abandon a style to the point akin to burying someone we care about. and in a blank wave of exhaustable gang of fly and sharpened exclaims of rejection…….! that crook, turned into a club. (eeeeerrrrrgh, the collective gathering of our times to shout, “pffffft” and roll all the i’s and ayes’ and eyes, and howoveruin, [he sits half on and off knowing those would only wrap him in an air of mysteriousness that smoulders in a shaking of the earth within and he wants to cry like a little girl and expect nothing in the way of meants to be gotten, only this line, this one coming up,; ‘justice called and left a message, “hmmm, @& par
“it’s kind a (5%27) of tU, things or §at[a’]wich’sunmeant coeurt’oOosi’lly.:
. mistake lion for cousin in french, (he thinks, confirmation at a whim’s throe, and the mauling his silence shuts out the old guy with the bangs. i don’t think it’s that nobody has the heart to say otherwise, but that 3rd person POV where you’re watching yourself shun the only part of you left to leave. imagine being the one that steps in.)