Bad cliches kill time. Now it's a lie, a disruption of uniqueness and stereotypical of a vicious lineup. The funeral service knows you, does a good job for nothing. Could this happen to us, a befuddled drift of ceremony?
Short attention spans take my place, cutting me out of the trial. A dark sarcasm leaves those kids alone and a man with a beard is missed by all the stereotypes. Dehumanization writes a happy death, and a Freudian shaves a post humus slip.
Where's our money Valentine?
I have studied a soul, theological baggage of the moral nervousness and heinousness of frustration, annoyance, and vexation Ad Homonym.
Power is important, you know.
It takes a sophisticated man to catch the satire of modern times (those nasty little critters). Illicit affairs bury a mother and the moral monstrosity of a patricide ensues as an odd synthesis of parodies of dutiful sons die a thousand times pointing out that they were called "a colony of France".
I've tried to catch myself with those stereotypes. A bad day at the beach will kill a man, get you hard labor for a few years just as a fragmented memory of the days of my past ineptitude grind modern times as a silent film actor.
And so at last the dark wind blows towards the singularity of an interesting image of man past, ground by the gears of yet another brick in the wall.
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