As I sip from the sap off the sappiest sippers I adorn my cloth pockets with leather bound zippers, I'm entranced by the hollowness of the situation in entirety, inspiration perspires me to the point of exhaustion among desire see.
The sights of seers seen sitting and watching as I sit wishing, washing whippet stains from my newly acquired bike, stalking slithering towards me, my lack of quivering due to the fact it's unknown to me I should be dither, which I am and like a snake, bound upon me I did take.
Dirt can be a medium from which all spawns, but could it be said dirt is also the byproduct of doing, be it right or wrong? How is it everything can become both dirty and clean in the same moment, see, paradigms digging deep into you mind, my thoughts they creep, your sight they're now behind.
Ride the dipstick to the shin splinter shack where the sugar monster cooks using boogers and crap, but we love it cause it's sweet, even if we shouldn't eat, even if it's bad for us, we will always fill our cheeks.
My mind has eluded from the sap to the crap, and yet here I sit writing just to be back to that. Dismal are the events which became from such yodeling, hoover the hovercraft and let's get cuddling.
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