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Land down, a bit. Recessin' from the storm, a bit. That was still here though, right? Yeah, I seen a day, it will defiantly come again, my predict. So till the story, and make it blend rough with the snubconscious that formed into me. Fastness, reckless backwoods anecdotal waste of big planning and fine strategem. Flips back at my, on this day. A blank spot of hope rips upoutwards and rotundly spits itself out in seconds, seemingly. A second spot, quite and very much different in place, kind and type, flared up and left a white spot in my envisioning. What's this, quite yet another flit of traction, at and dis! To what do I owe every honor, bastard positioning schemes, check the fine print! No, this is garbage, perhaps I've dropped out of that zone, special quite medidative, what was that, kinda stuff. I matters little, enough of myself knows that I'll be put along the bit for nothing, probably. Ha, that kinda reads as the spit joke of selfsame bouser who wants me to join his doomed ways of playing. Nope, wander into the trees and become a solid ghost before those choice hounds take yourself into dark folds. In the clear, records must be kept, ones with lights! Barbie snaps, parlor hips. The big, loud break-off, right ups tharnin' for a spitten of blewed, yum. I whistle an nautical theatric the human isle soon grown in right loud namesakes and moved en doubt being right inside the air. The, as to, flood encompetuh. How many but umpteen times, aloud, did I elocate to you the sounds precision-stood needed!? Plenty of bad ideas stormed up the times, took'em in, cared and became, to erude itself? No bodies aught think of me thinking like that. The slide into the next stylish phrase module. Where did this one come from, and what does it tell us about tomorrow? Those are for you, meta-commentary on the broad stretch. Then out of all that, to what is everything and danger for this. The filtret options which over I have no control, bagst. So bad, this which passes froth mitself. At the time, I've been thinking about the outcome of the whole balmy riddle. These small pictures that I end up wanting so bad, becoming infused in every other bit in the whole big bit. This is what is wrong with me, not for sure but possibly the source of this late misfortune concerning the lynx. Still, I'll doublet back around for things which bake me metter, and practice the art, en cavale! Little monuments, moments when everyfreakin' think drains out of me forever, only to return in any instant. I know this, like every other event is just that. But the thing that tickles my thought is that strange flash that I cannot place. Bet.
