I went to sleep on Mrs. Jone’s purple sofa, and thought wistfully of a restrangled turnip dusting the oompa sand. Even though I know a sphere is not a circle, I sometimes question whether we’re cognizant dissidents wandering through the compound complexes and sin’s of Satanus elsewhere in the murky quagmire. Fighting insomnia, I read a few of bek’s books to induce boredom and tediousness, hence finding slumber in spite of the bethelite elder.
And just when I think I’ve heard it all, anderson’s info tells of an African governing body member, and I laugh at the sheer minimus of the pistoff badboy. Does anyone know when the gary bus runs?