Princess, you mustn’t be feeling properly and to top it off i’m predisposed to mistrust. Rust covering cheap metal, the devil in my reflection, needs an intervention. Never mind his seemingly innocent desire, trouble is all that speaks in the silence of doubt. Your guzzling life’s gas like a fashion-less drag of an illegal inspection. One moment, you’re here…the next gone. You might as well alight my transport as you clearly find no sport in our relationship.
A double dip in the road derails your enjoyment of the cold departed night, a lack of intuitive vision prevents any contribution or continuation of our past pass time. You’ve tried before, to ignore the confusion sustained in my tension the direction of this paragraph is aimed to relieve us, you and me. The singular, pair or three of us, curses, spread the worsening history pertained by a wonky axis altering the degree of seriousness in your delivery. Insight into the situation would be useful, for instance, the likely and humble causing a wicked heavy fumbling in the eroticism of indiscreet implicature.
Ostentatious, a watcher of the might, destined to know less and less by everyday spent withering in the descent of wild insidious resourcefulness and heightened in the madness of their unintentionally off putting apprehension. The backlash is deafening.