yesterday
I know that some nights it happens that you understand that the only reason why you never realized that the drummer of The Clash is good is because they do not play the drums, but where I finished my reserves of courage to things? were dissolved in acid crumbs as seemingly unrelated sentences together, something that the first reading will make me sick already. but where is my supposed ability to analyze things, I might have thrown in the sink with his hair? prosaic big question, even by Nobel prize of bullshit.
the little baby bug say hello to all those who came out of hiding and is now stark naked, without even a stone by pulling on him. where have all the junk his remaining after the move? I do not know, since we are in a fairy tale them to him will probably eat the wolves. At this point the little boy realizes that the bug is reopening the fountain head, because the brain is not being retired under pressure. the little baby bug scratches his head tightly, but just can not think, then starts watching the moon because it is so unattainable therefore not considered a problem. At this point the little baby bug is banging against the moon and dies again, like just out of the nest, without ever having seen anything so because his brain has run slammed against the light bulb between a bass and the other, and if they have not returned to its owner weir on the carpet.
the way, where's my carpet? This place makes me a bit 'more harm to your back. where is my ability to place mirrors on its feet and begin to climb? all killed in a pair of scissors and cut the other. I move the antennas horrible and I say ouch, that sucks, but if I get up is not only my problem, I will finish in garbage bags with the remains of dinner.
the next installment of the baby bug in a short time, when it decides to make a move.
spend the night, will
confusion,
spend the night, the confusion will
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