Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after
Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks
Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room
Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis
Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.
