Life is Golden, with every post, makes a better case for Liz Warren's wealth tax.
The poster "serenity" has taught me how to speak with the logic of a right-wing lunatic which aids communication.
I will give an example:
Given flugelhorn with the yes stirrups in general supposition, fragrances gallop metaphysically in pool dimensions.
Are mufflers enduring maroon concepts through fear or lust?
Bigsby tailpiece through the frozen atoms as gullible manifestations appear above the clitoris of life.
Louisville ash climbs kiosk amid furls of indigenous crayons garnering webs through metastasis and fingers, but why?
Are we ice cream gliders smoking on the grassy knoll? Within what sauce, and who is to frolic? Inflated OPS arises on the gums,
but is it spearmint or is it Asper? Profundities seed gumbo, and post years moss the grain, first then, and then now.
Yellow vibes flourish on conservative dimensions, but only as the mosquito assesses its prospects for cunnilingus over the gills.
Tuned port injection feels the necessity of syrup, even as the marigolds are flossed with steam and hunger. Shall we flee or shall we mammal? Does it grow either flop?
In the girth, we finally oasis the beginning and the kink explodes into rational paving stones. Likeness abounds as do many ferns, and the lamp oil tells tale of inner tubes and scabs.
Yet through it, the flamingo washes her many novels and the bliss turnbuckles black fonts of gloom.
Lest I demur, the above scallops the frog of St. Blitzen tomorrow and purple as well.
First came the sawdust of discovery from which the kindling and the anchovies emerged as molten grapes. Are memories merely the hinge of vestiges from where the foster care emerges as tumultuous pudding?
Trout and carriage bolts visit the frankness of obscenity, but even so, the tits of claustrophobia nurse the merits of Bohemian rivets.
Deny spackle if you will, my queen of trollops, but then know that jaundice travels like the blue light of suspicion over damp socks.
What patriotism approaches escarole when the normal wrinkles blend? We must ponder the resultant laces. We must strangle the presiding frame of Rubbermaid.
Wretched investigation of the Cracker Barrel rocker on the porch of Rasmus, he of flannel and calamine lotion arising over fermentation, can result only in fragments of wax.
Flash her closed but shallow numeral, but only as the precinct observes its Ramadan of urgency and flatulence.
Cracks abound on the surface of instinct, and wounds reopen with the grace of a well struck cleek. Veils over the many faces of urethane, once balata but never again, project the
solitude of great mackerel and their brethren from the Alamo. Who is to deny the rabbits of hemlock? College ruled pages ripped from the journals of aardvarks languish over the undercooked ribs
from the great vacuum of irritability cover the fingers of unloved infants--perhaps the ultimate proof of God's intolerance.
Cyber-horns blow the chorus of inverted mollusks, and the strings of past failures provide strident harmony against their own will. We see. We deny. We almost perish but don't quite regurgitate.
Here, victims of Creation, lie the great truths of the recycling generation. Here we experience the mashed, the French fried, and the baked of urgent penetration.
As crystal-encrusted currency surges toward orgasmic climax, yellow dots of optimism diminish--first gradually and then brown.
From these numerals arrive polyester, and follicles of complacency begin to close the books of the assailants. The chain-markers stretch,
but don't the arrows bend as well? Grey lines of appetite appear skittish, while even the sparrows acknowledge the absence of plastic and dust.
Here we have the elasticity of mahogany praising the punctuation, but not as the glow of twisted gelatin swears otherwise.
Onward, ceiling tiles of the cordless mouse! My mug salutes the furtive sighs of the sharpener incarnate.