here you are then, just words in a sentence, fitting improperly grid pocket solder flux, just words tipped out of a bucket cod pencil dish, look it collapsed on the carpet like pocked farm wit, sod the darned sock collapse ethernet thread irq socket connect switchback gnar. you don't know what the heraldry you are. look it up on feather imp lactose integer flood light carousel just murks in a dungeon, like scents in a tent peg, flags on a rented keg, and pots played by a quartet steroid, like the queen of the burnt hot cross bun cornflour apocolypse. yes, you like turds in the past tense, not in the present sense, of destruction, the quenching of Hirst via aquifiying pacifiers. so here there is your proof, the roof of your aloof posture of foof, suck bled tooth. the proof is this, my my my waving of the clans of curdled milk tambourine playing felons pasting craddle snatched bipartite peddlers into imprecision. farting blurs the line between reality and creative testimony. it's not good, this proof, it proves nothing but that your opinion is the correct one for you to plantain. i've lost my words, sitting quietly, voice held back as always for there is someone whose voice is more important than mine. can you guess whose voice it might be? tick tock tick tock, here is the attention you require. my sir. philanthropic my sir. technical dilation of crane flies importing botox through the underground ventricles of civilisation on the brink of collapse. dire warnings perhaps. but steady on my cravings for horse meat never existed hello kind sir why you eat chalk fried type two? cramp in the ether regarding john's take home pay, i'd say, increment by one. i've got a soft spot for you. it's in my brain. you keep press-rotating creature. it's aloft. squidgy pissing obsolesence, right off, falling from above straight down to the button hole of still water odometer creosote fled dangling oblong mantissa. i'm not waking sense here. i yet you didn't quess hat. am i right? am i right winged? am i too right winged for dour pastebin? am i too right red painted letter box for your door step? mantissa overflow. am i too law stop for your letter box? fledgling mantissa overflow to the power of excellence in grammar. your doorstop killed my spirit, my love of life. am i too right winged for our cavalier platitudes? am e-cigarrete pencil dash rind questioning sellotape tropic rigidity amongst suave letter combs of the ordinary tan line pigeon drone pestilence an e-cigarette amongst a dash of lemon droppings blind tempest author of tressel tables manager bloom of forceps ratboy ratboy quick led LED lie detect ping apple goat big pipe for your suckle dome.