They’re bioengineering a new sub-type of cancer, it’s about time, really. Many modern modems squeaking and whirring; it’s all too much, would you just shut up, please? Plasticine porch pigeons pretending to be pecking poundfruit scraps. Hand-crank self-shockers and peddle-powered executioners. Three hundred thirty-seven painstakingly hand-painted piggy banks suspended from the ceiling. John called, said he wants Richards tech. Oklahoma left entirely devastated following cataclysmic thunderstorms; more to come. You’re on thin ice now.
Escaping into the thick morning’s mist, you can finally be free; like a beautiful bird. Increasingly frequent maniacal meltdowns. Quail fish quilt sales. Subject to spontaneous sublimation. Indonesian idiographic ideograms and pheasant feather felt fans. New age contemporary telephones that do the talking for you; I’ve never felt so connected. Luscious botanical drapery; and, hello there little gup. A night of rusty knives. The flowers have never been so beautiful. You’ve been too happy. It’s time to cut your breaks and put the pedal to the metal.
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