when never i'd gone to nook in hiding the sun in their puffy titanic pale
the clouds of spring are not unlike the lips of my lover; whose splendor
grates in every and every her lazy exact muscles flush hunk of slippery
rough pink; she who art wholly more a softly thing than the big tangy
roof of spreading up over all the earth their guts of rumpled kissing
flesh the skin of my soul. which is not unlike a crust of furious dainty
cells basically cloistered knots of dna and a and nut in which is the
glorious **** of lovely symmetry that composes the entirety of her most
unfat blood corpulent sock of engorged radiating ***