A little Yoko baby

It was a Tuesday.

Talk about the baby, it’s her life in their hands. We’ve eaten the same thing for dinner three days in a row. Saint Peter owned eighty kids and they were smoked to success, bonafide coaching and his slurred juvenile speech. Open mouth and unintelligent, we aim to impress. Profiling the young, sixing up to optimize an outside gain. Life lessons with pop and the funny sunglasses. An adolescent fascinated with the unhealthy, chastising for only the wrong way- you must have misspoken and the twisted teeth on an unfortunate elder. Young in no way, too ready to jump the fun. Edgy business in the depth of a weird roll, hush conversations and a warm seat to boot a tale. Show off the goods because we’re representing a nobility. Master in a highway, confusion in the organization. A lapse in validation, we overcome the church- his communion. Ignore your spawn because they’re around to this, olive skin and I am reminded of the old plum of emotional respite. Similarity in profound difference, a hidden sin on your ankle, almost ordained by nature- the newly baptized in the Micvah of real impermanence. The ones own environment, swayed to a nauseous beat of repetition, thrown in the absence, an elaborate flamenco. We are the professionals. In reality this is the real deal but why. In this I miss the flow you took to the apple. Old man, wild and I rant. Chant and intonate something of fluidity. Jealousy when it is unwarranted and whence the tables are turned someone else gets the bee to the knee. Was I not clear, the way the hour goes- something olive in the common. Nothing that shared the name so simply, to the modern a nametag is obsolete, the reality tag- in your face with noted serenity. Inclination and seduction in the smirk of an occupied man- day. Nothing but present with anxiety, know you are a muse, tell it in my eyes- we doubt the judgments.

Wear in the washed to start this new shit. This is an active participation, a place of total serenity in chaos. With a spinal recount we see the opposition in conventional process, but that’s the whole idea for BILL WILL SET YOU FREE. There is too much on the rim of the ear, audibly we’ve been influenced. Only when opened from all sides does the arrival seem legitimate, proliferate something. The line is counter the days of sincerity. A little Yoko baby, stake the claim and mess with something RAW. There is invitation in subtle curiosity. A craving in a bizarro level of estranged comfort, familiarity in connectivity. Turned on by the hand stitched logo of anarchistic maturity. Brushed out tones, manicured with hot enough time to spare, the event for the newly settled. Measured in something of fantasy, your blues are mood indigo- water is a right, the shadow of something offensive. Too much anticipation in inexperience. Fish on the pedestal of a dingy station- the sensibly hand-made suits of navy mundanity. The look is obtrusive and we’re all so convoluted and preoccupied with something of our own movie. The young and the wrong, this is gold so capitalize on something real because the tangible is uncommon. You have to come down because I am master, she says.

The reasons to touch down are diluted by the charming foreigner. The bits do there part and the way you allow the expletive to leave. Dan the church and let the iced brew spill. I want to be in the thing with the way up the tree. There is a telescope in the questions, too much in the point of your chin. Drop the word to allow the small talk to spread internationally. She’s deadly good fun, and be the words too fast. Something overwhelming in its desire, his eye contact- we’re too curious. In a few years some nonsense will be needed- you’ve got to capture the way it’s demonstrated. Solid when people catch on in the anti-populous. Dwarfing the partner in play, this place can’t be overrated if you take it for what it is.

The man with the process was back. Disorientation at the finest with a roll of tin foil and an alien in repose. The faint remainders of a sculpture for reality. Precious movements, life and dreams in the American jungle, a struggle substituted by substance of a new nature. Nothing natural in your demerit. Join the field and the race has lost its direction, speeding on to the usual stops, there is anxiety in the known because the norm leaves such a grim, a stench of intensity with the lack of stimulation. Recess and detest what it is that you can’t grasp. It’s why you look in such a way, on abutting inquiry with no genuine courtesy. Nothing overtly sexy in the way this is carried, nothing in the way of my wears when unboundedly compared to the chicsta down the way. In fact, in comparison it is measured up short in the small of reality. Out movements are removed as things because more noticeably absolute. In length, there is charm but in the immediate there is uprooted intimidation- nothing short of spotty clarification. The connection in the South African arrival caused the departure. A night too well dazed for days. Expletives explain the experience. Expressing more than ever needed for an update. We’re involved and here, evolved. Don’t loose touch because in this interest there is evident inspiration to run the fucking mouth. Nothing can be taught unless you are taut and absorb.