If mothers do not wish their brood to be disciplined in the most oral manner, it is then well-advised for them to restrain the little atrocities from foolishly sending packs of snow toward targets far above their league. Furthermore, if mothers themselves do not wish to be hunted down with the frozen pelts originating from their vermin, yield in ( Read more... )

Mm. What groundless rumors. Then fly, little ones. Its capture of midair flight has always been this lens' specialty.

[a low, venomous snarl]

Distasteful blue-drowned vermin abducted the camera.

[the growling continues for a while, back and forth, back and forth, in almost a musing way, before dropping further into what could be a small, pitiful whine,]

Has it been seen?

To enjoy its true succulence is most ideal while le mort vivant remains still adolescent. ...And if one should perhaps find the meal too tough for thorough delight...here awaits open arms.

Aged, pickled-skinned women with their branches of steel wood have not carved themselves a position in the food chain as good feeding. Thus the only sour reason hindering their--her--otherwise imminent demise, today. It is vexing--was she not proud of her young descendant being chosen to prove his worth? True, perhaps the little one was struggling ( Read more... )

It. Is wet.

If one were to operate his or her head before the mouth, it would be of most generous degrees. There does happen to reside tenants inside this complex in possession of more sensitive senses than others, as clearly heard.

Lens in one hand, the other holding simpletons' tunes that sing If you break me, I do not stop working; if you touch me, I may be snared; if you lose me, nothing will matter, the deprived shall be hungry nevermore.

The ever-delirious sun creeps minutely through the flimsy satin sheets in a morning call and, still, I do not understand.

Would it like to be known whyever so this sentiment? Simply for the reason that it remains not understandable.

[B-Backdated to early in the morning!]

The more diminished one of the brood is here. As is its chere fille.

With a scalpel in hand
If I stop moving I will sleep on my feet

And the rumors are seething
Gunfire at freeway exits, bridges, mid barricades
I can feel the fog creeping
God where is the morphine, the sweet lidocaine