That declared, it's time you disappeared and We stepped in.
We've waited and We've waited for you to leave. If I'm in love I will show it through weakness. My weakness is waiting for others to leave. You won't and now it's time to black out the room.
We wrapped a game hen in a silicon Hardener, brushed at Our beauty mark (at which We are joined at the face) and slammed a fist on the silicon Hardener Setter on the stove top. So it did set and it did harden, boy. I turned Our heads and opened my mouth again. An autumnal siren wiggled throughout the lobby. A yellow leaf slid from under Her shirt, but She's not important right now. We produced a Simplified Injector and dipped it into the hen, cut open the set mould in just a minute or so, poured a dark broth onto the carpet. “Hen-shaped fruit gelatin preparer, anyone?” one of Us joked while we prepared a fruit-shaped gelahen de-sorter. I've tired, the Other one of Us said, of being of Love. You have to go now, You are a menace. You couldn't quite read the hint but You couldn't because we'd jammed tight the doors, it's true, those doors already had been jammed closed by those large pieces of wood one uses to jam such things when passionate about nobody leaving.
Are all family gatherings this way?
With the situation like that, an injection seemed inevitable. You tried to convince me that We had betrayed Us. I pointed suitably. See the beauty mark? This is Our mark of Beauty. Is it not obvious? Naturally it is. It is the internal organ of the timepiece that marks beauty. “But there's a war on” you plaintiffed and whipped the bowl of cream. Put that down I said, that isn't yours.
So You lay down on the sleigh bed of ice and hummed Hit Nativity Singles until disappearing completely.
Did You get the weather, a spot in a journal which is a spot on the Map and which contains the Map? I asked. We are old fashioned in our uppity map abuse, the perils of an Internal Organ inhaled through a pronounced nostril. After You was dead I blew my nose and glared effectively at the abject compasses littering the sheepskin before saying, Grace!
We wrapped a game hen in a silicon Hardener, brushed at Our beauty mark (at which We are joined at the face) and slammed a fist on the silicon Hardener Setter on the stove top. So it did set and it did harden, boy. I turned Our heads and opened my mouth again. An autumnal siren wiggled throughout the lobby. A yellow leaf slid from under Her shirt, but She's not important right now. We produced a Simplified Injector and dipped it into the hen, cut open the set mould in just a minute or so, poured a dark broth onto the carpet. “Hen-shaped fruit gelatin preparer, anyone?” one of Us joked while we prepared a fruit-shaped gelahen de-sorter. I've tired, the Other one of Us said, of being of Love. You have to go now, You are a menace. You couldn't quite read the hint but You couldn't because we'd jammed tight the doors, it's true, those doors already had been jammed closed by those large pieces of wood one uses to jam such things when passionate about nobody leaving.
Are all family gatherings this way?
With the situation like that, an injection seemed inevitable. You tried to convince me that We had betrayed Us. I pointed suitably. See the beauty mark? This is Our mark of Beauty. Is it not obvious? Naturally it is. It is the internal organ of the timepiece that marks beauty. “But there's a war on” you plaintiffed and whipped the bowl of cream. Put that down I said, that isn't yours.
So You lay down on the sleigh bed of ice and hummed Hit Nativity Singles until disappearing completely.
Did You get the weather, a spot in a journal which is a spot on the Map and which contains the Map? I asked. We are old fashioned in our uppity map abuse, the perils of an Internal Organ inhaled through a pronounced nostril. After You was dead I blew my nose and glared effectively at the abject compasses littering the sheepskin before saying, Grace!
posted by the landscapers of at 22.11.06
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