OK nevermind. I thought I was wishing upon some sort of neverending abyssal gristle. You know, the kind of sort of type off the keyboard for more profound scriptical textronic letterage. It's not even the end of time, and I'm still humming the cosmic marketing ploy while scooters numb my anterior mental partition into the proper state of such-a-bottom-frog-pond, part zero. Perpetual yes's spoken into the microcosm beneath women's dresses. I hear there's meat on the outer rims of Europa, if you only take the time to the store and buy it a toy in exchange for eternalness deployed out the window of the nocturnal cranberry spouts. Need explanations? They're in the periodic holes one encounters upon ditch digging. Forgive me, for I have wronged the universe with crudity. Like space warmers, they're all a chicken embryo needs to set and achieve goals. Be sure to check out my website at
www.mammal.com/antlers/people-stuck-in-beehives.htm
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