In the times of gazebos their remained a subtle concoction that was unbelievable in its composition, it was the greatest dilemma ever posed by the minds of men, it was the conundrum at the heart of the matter, it was beneficent remorse, the oculars, the dimension, the poise of a thousand million of what not, the conjunctional, the repeatable, the ocular misappropriation, is the significance inter digressed between the means, of the un bet word, the dimension is un transgressed into the your tininess of the learned misdemeanour, the appropriate response,
If perhaps you could gather the remorse of a thousand million men perhaps you would gather some harvest which tells the tales of all the lost souls, of all the dying dreams which are denied then perhaps you would have chronicle of the times which have passed, and the silent will remain sicken until the times by which they are atrophied and cast upon the small cringing, hiatus, that passes, reliant, and disposed towards the redolent conurbation, which is a dilemma at the heart of the willingness, that disposes the virulent, comatose, the young felt Breen which succinctly fills the redolent joining, the disapropria hinges the underneath, the coagula, the yonder hitter land, obvious, seeming to disappear over the horizon, it dwells a time in the hearts and eyes of the things , that dwell circumspect, and oblivious, to the times, and the time is come and the dark times have arrived and we are somehow, disappear, in the times you feel , you, think, you , gorge, and you, and you and you, hasten the time, when , the arrival, depends on the trio of triage, the barrage, the carrot, barrister of porcelain, hirsute, the dimorphic translation, the underhand repletion,

And AGAIN your face is the only one that haunts me now, the thing is that if it were ever some other face then I would not vend deny that these things ere something that I could vent deny, perhaps that if I could perhaps think of another way to describe the thing which from you I need more than any toner thing, which I verb desired, the thing that drives, me farad that thing, that makes, me feel, if only to feel the hitching that very drives me the thing the feeling, the feeling deep inside of my souk, the beneficent though dilemmas, which hunts i guess, the feeling, that morphs, everything, and I if ever dream of perfection, wane not such dream, is perfect, koura, if only I dream of vet perfection, then perhaps moss would grow upon my tree, if only such luck would make my love feel the things which is desire, and only desire for all the other things that I feel are diminished in the face of this thing which fills me and I feel complete if it is imply lust then in welcomes it for what a thing it to fell the winter, and the summer is in Paris, AND the Autumn IS IN the Paris, and the Spiders is the love which i desire, and the sluts of Stan are something that I need,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,