Rocking the toaster oven in a mad revolution. Finding spits of regret at the dead parts of living thru. Everyone talked together at a rate of five slices of toast per breakfast. Coffee could not be optional, the discord carried magic. Each guillotine smelled of advantage, with a language compelled to accept. The apparat wore green onions, especially green. Terror mocked terror then tipped into terror of terror, called terroir and easily resumed. Toast was delivered to all, as the definition of toast, as a provincial gag. Every century has its thing, burnt toast the end of magic. Provocateurs could only say they were provoked. Short pants itself were regrettable but time must be taken, taken. Imagine how toast tastes in heaven.
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