The bereaved soul

And the anvil moved toward the forbidden angst-ridden mob boss. Two can play at that game, he whispered, and removed a bottle of cognac from his pocket. What’s the weather going to be like today? he asked and there was little to do but sob. Oh, I see you’ve got an edition of sunday’s paper, what’ll it be…prostitution babies or the war on iraq. Let’s see, no simple minded fool could resist the turn-tables of an oxford backwards-limping champion, I’ll take sedation and the quest for developing fire. Two suns, two moons, who knew there would be an outbreak of rascal-thumping hydration? Oh, if only the twitch had turned into a smoggy sigh of relief, then we could muster all the strength we had and put it on a downpayment.
Chapter two- the squeezing gun. Ow! Stop! I’m slap-happy, I’m mad alright, at them damn injuns who stole our land and fed our women lugnuts. A curse upon them and their Iranian family members, swelling about the eyelids like they do. Imagine the work-wrecking nerve of those people! In an infant, I find refusal to speak anything with mind-numbing potential. In the infants are carter’s red or a deep blue green, wrenching with poetry and sailing towards the apex. In my formidable days, I was uninformed. I thought that carpentry was a soldier’s paradise and that weaving could cause great havoc. But now I know better. It’s all implemented in the day’s street fighting was legal. For the fortunate ones are causing blunder, and the rest of us are carving kites just to keep up. The nose is red, the day is drown, and my sopwiths are fleeting forthwith. Exclamation point!