Insinuated barracks
The angle of protrusion that vacates coaxed envelopes from the anticipation that waned cooperatively from deviousness to flavour, guilting the superficially inept into wallowing mercilessly beyond a fragrance laced with the sour taste of failure. To recite the Vogon poetry recalling pithy visions like crunchy breakfast cereal, would be unlike any other lugubriously kempt bale of straw; lichen driven and funky. Mesopotamian dreams of electricity fail to ignite the simple or barrage the elven. Quantifiable dreams make terrible digital wrist watches.
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The elven are not of this world.
Ode To a Lump of Green Slime I Found in my Armpit One Midsummer's Morning....
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