weighed in by heavenfelt likening bougios to the anthropomorgical outlaws

could it be dexterous fingers?  just cold horseshoes on a hym of time

without a doubt, the effectively noted numbers, only so many to buy or catch

perhaps yarn that won't stick with duct-tape?   maybe a giant thimble for yarnsales that edge out vooddoo

where do their mezmorized scripts, jaunting through lucid dreaming for hours only to find taste for sugary cereals

loved in an elevator?  try smooth jazz