Blues guitar has caught us in our transgressions, where the summer blossom splays her beauty like a New Orleans Madame amidst the afterglow of a musky and nocturnal vibrancy.
I have a fully loaded clip on my possession, and I am hungry.
So, shall we begin?
Your carotid artery is pulsating with tense anticipation within the sweet toxicities of a tragic and fretful solo.
There is such a responsibility of being a parent, and you owe me some money.
Let us purchase some Bourbon chicken on this eve of celebratory shame, because I have contemplated the chasm between the West and those who reside on the East coast of vice.
We have much to discuss.