I have yet to train its pinchers. Sweating crippled is a glass like water dripping off a dolphin. The big, bad bulge of fortitude and passion steered toward fitting in. Underneath is black and blue and blistered by the wisdom cords. The art fart is a panacea.
Syllables are iodine.
Yet, they wouldn t much exist if you had folded listen blankets, coldly stuffed them in the closet, made me walk alone in pain. Puppies on a leash refraining from immersing in the waves. Shadows of disabled stink. They re rotted fish on beaten shores. Just like milk and veins in shrimp.