i hate exclusive writing websites, it feels more about eyeing a clock of readers and favourites and keep safes than anything to do with progress; also the stuff that gets the worthwhile attention for a digestive system inquiring about an alt. diet is, in fact: well, some write for waitresses and bartenders, those who like language just as it is... obediently, instruction manual of a narrative, the: "it will never happen to me so i can feel cosy;" but some hate the way language is crafted for reason as mentioned prior: and bypass the waitresses and bartenders for a nitrogen meal with a whiskey sour.
ever play shadow ching chang wollah?
you loose the paper stone and scissors,
and you end up
imagining you're on the long haul
of drugs doing a 12h acid ******
not the mile high business class
of a 15minute ******* quickie,
you're next to the ****** teenagers
drinking away as the marathon man,
anyway, with this shadow ching chang wolah,
you loose the paper stone and scissors
on the jesse james draw;
what you get is a creepy spider,
a parkinson's flashlight dropped in a ghost
house reminiscent of a heartbeat,
a rabbit, that old classic,
and the laughed at crescendo of a crow
using two hands! messerschmitt the hands do!
*or like i end every arguments with my father: father, you're a brilliant exponent of bad faith, brimming-full with negations, but i rather your bad faith than the anti-existentialist cartesian good faith with pascal's twinkle: brimming-full with contradictions due to the coupling of thought to doubt; and i'm old enough to read these old leather chair **** books for a wrinkles' worth of tear, otherwise why would we send these idiots en-route 180º from the sciences and productivity? it's interesting this, the post-cartesian experiment: but it makes people annoying, i deny, therefore i think, makes it great to boil an egg and not think of a better solipsism. but i laugh it off: i could have been a proper drug dealer for psychiatrists, but i ended up being a proper theory synthesiser. but you know that denial breeds no faith as doubt does, well it does, faith-in-itself, which makes the self a keener protagonist, which is not really beneficial to slump and ride two thousand kilometres at four miles per hour.*
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
i hate exclusive writing websites, it feels more about eyeing a clock of readers and favourites and keep safes than anything to do with progress; also the stuff that gets the worthwhile attention for a digestive system inquiring about an alt. diet is, in fact: well, some write for waitresses and bartenders, those who like language just as it is... obediently, instruction manual of a narrative, the: "it will never happen to me so i can feel cosy;" but some hate the way language is crafted for reason as mentioned prior: and bypass the waitresses and bartenders for a nitrogen meal with a whiskey sour.
ever play shadow ching chang wollah?
you loose the paper stone and scissors,
and you end up
imagining you're on the long haul
of drugs doing a 12h acid ******
not the mile high business class
of a 15minute ******* quickie,
you're next to the ****** teenagers
drinking away as the marathon man,
anyway, with this shadow ching chang wolah,
you loose the paper stone and scissors
on the jesse james draw;
what you get is a creepy spider,
a parkinson's flashlight dropped in a ghost
house reminiscent of a heartbeat,
a rabbit, that old classic,
and the laughed at crescendo of a crow
using two hands! messerschmitt the hands do!
*or like i end every arguments with my father: father, you're a brilliant exponent of bad faith, brimming-full with negations, but i rather your bad faith than the anti-existentialist cartesian good faith with pascal's twinkle: brimming-full with contradictions due to the coupling of thought to doubt; and i'm old enough to read these old leather chair **** books for a wrinkles' worth of tear, otherwise why would we send these idiots en-route 180º from the sciences and productivity? it's interesting this, the post-cartesian experiment: but it makes people annoying, i deny, therefore i think, makes it great to boil an egg and not think of a better solipsism. but i laugh it off: i could have been a proper drug dealer for psychiatrists, but i ended up being a proper theory synthesiser. but you know that denial breeds no faith as doubt does, well it does, faith-in-itself, which makes the self a keener protagonist, which is not really beneficial to slump and ride two thousand kilometres at four miles per hour.*