When an ice cream cone smells of fruit gills

Witch craft, unlike aircraft, performs craft work to show craftiness.

I dream of beep but will never own it. I sleep of twice the symbol; barking like a deranged lamp post. Marveling at the DC; that's how errant the type would shake it. There aren't two, when three of twice the spread; like rampant disingenuous fly paper modules. It is only the plague that wrecks me so. Time will will provide solutions that one can wrestle with diminishing vigor.

The choice is cheese. The voice is fleece. The slice is diced and the pocket is rocketed. There isn't enough elbow room for all of the elbows. There aren't enough shins to be kicked. There is little angst among the Mastodon follicles. When the livid divide their energy, squalid entropic puddles of emotional mush get toasted and then vaporized. The troposphere receives this punishing mixture easily, like a doughnut hole racing towards a broken incandescent light fixture.

Exposure isn't what the leaders intended. Sidelined by the vision, corrupted by the mindset, evasive by the wayward; these are the soul truths to be discarded. Let the meritocracy decide.