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Follow Me, We Paid a fair Price for It

Jennifer Aniston was a flattened pungency but okay, Donnie Most had flowers. flowers bend to truckle and tone, which damns sentiment and wings fieldstones towards nascent spurge. ranuculus (meanwhile) spoil for a fight, which will include the diametric repetition of Jennifer Aniston walking down the red carpet towards the certainty of slagheap. no other prediction fits the tomb so well. jonquils fritter away in snow, then undulate, and we all go sex bomb. forests are deprived, like normal children, and the wind from moose-ridden Maine collects in bad breath. the world stinks, because it breathes. knowledge base, however, smells like teen spurt, but without the market share. Donnie Most is a heroic dimension of inquiry, fan-based, and a free iPod in the middle. sentences are archaic, like attachment. Saturn is festively ringed by dust and shit, but the tonal message still seems opulent. we will want to collect in Afghanistan and fix up a world. a poem is posh. it wants to be treacle-based ontology but words are not marches. thus: Donnie Most and Jennifer Aniston reframe the question by asking for residuals. those are awesome spires, like in your own dream town.

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