for the wristlers

О могучий ArtGerm, я пишу тебе на русском, потому как мой mithril worm это принципиальный softporn на фоне reckless stance of cookidness. Nevertheless to be fare I admit to confess the bittness of your Ness  flowing like a frilly-based horse to make bets on.

Gone – but still in our hearts, 1 billion faps for the queen – fill up the canteen with mirthy and mighty unpurple – who said that a queen has to be made with a turtle strains in the wrists, that the jacks are the beasts of the hissious antichrist named Bobby – my lobby is up for the king, despite of trimmmming the mind with a moby, bringing a pin of almost a sin alike foby of a glance.

I meeen the absention of ones that could bring up some bramas, tadamas and jaffara’s son could weight up a ton of forthgiving, but we are leaving the subject by oversucking the notget son of jaffar – bar, chocolate, bar.

Dunno too many gal to be honest with something, that win the perfection of an eye connection between the pony crystals and the fistful of fur, but here in Russia we have some mashas to rule the sur, lead tanks of the motion blur for the seniority of being the knights of the bro of the women, we have 2be men, but when we see frenic jobs of Ketka, креветка закопанного таланта начинает перебирать лапками, сливовая ветка медовой truth of the feather осыпается хряпками of a composition, we make the position of a culture-based turn to open a vision of the nation by some holy burn with a unification of cracks in the butts of domnating the previous generations with hands of imperial communism, that you cannot see throughout the imaginism upsides, in stead we

Have the sights. Congealed reality, you know. Named Dmitry Andreev, the fresh alkali wristler, the bruce lee type of a blister on the minds of the eternal nookies rattling ‘bout how did he do it.

But these are the old news. The new ones reviews the tomorrow in a quantity of a myriad – staring at starlight brewgon swimming in the childish blackhole, hesitating, wether to kiss a boyrl or the previous stripes of poems were not enough. Wrestling with action figures of gamedevious past to prevent them from falling apart (crossed out) from repeating the movements of the hilarious mainstream.

Yeah, you wish! How long it has been when you’ve seen a falling star, which if we get not far reflect in the glass of a car by pairs, and the scar of the galaxy flares some soul music in those who dares to take one ride with the fellows to the stance of a fusical balance? And the gallons of beer – did you hear them burying the deer of tranquility? And the ability of soul to be calm by a rhythm section, a voice being a lection on grasshoping the lines, who blinds anymore one’s eyes with disguise of a “crocodille” game, who earns the fame by the grade in the drawing – not only annoying but, you know, a real fame. Who farped at the Blame! thinking preventally that robots can speak mentally?

I’m such a bore. You know the lore, they say, and gently push the breaks. What is so social about it, I doubt that a rainbow trout is still a trout, nor the dimensional sigarett butt, nor the gut of a drawyer. Just as simple as it should be, just as unreachable as always.