unless there is a reason that it should not be, it is.
Rooted in ancient theory. Entrusted within dying realms of gracious hue. This is what we speak?
Never so handsome as to the fettered brow of grandure… as is the glory upon which slimy clothespins attach themselves to our skin.
Bemused? Certainly. I have decreed with such intolerance toward you, thieved from a frivilously chattered phrase box? Into the void we sank.
Feathering laddles to whom? Crawling along the ridge that is spawning thoughts like fish upstream from a nuclear waste processing plant that fathered this whole GODDAMN THING IN THE FIRST PLACE! AAAAAAAAAAGH!
The griddle is warm enough to melt the butter, but let cease the ironing passion. Let us instead await the forthcoming of the egg.