Anyway, as I was at some point beyond the visceral amplitude required for some form of ordinality, insofar as many a hungry and iterative condition would permit me to bewail the pandemonium of a phantom asparagus, I betook me to assail in some small fashion, as it were, absent from any fall plankton, or juice in a flesh gibbon.
The means of such, having befallen upon accomplishments both vicarious and educational, so it was as it should have been perhaps, a glancing backwater host of effervescent personification. No mere impediment would inscribe this invective. Only a shoeshine in a vacuum, and sometimes not at all, of course.
Altruism aside, let us happen upon a grotesque, for only in the event of a vacant idiocy would this imaginative edification find any form of ornamental vice with which to whiten your wick. Sick? Boy, a bowl of basins, not officially so, but more in the vein of a scar victoriously painted inside the phantom asparagus, handling its' own fruit in a stockyard cannibal. It is in such a suit, me a fortunate empty (of course), and only a king with a kind of a certain wild animal.
Assiduously, the vale investing afar of a formal opulence, in the form of a fairy, fell from an apple ordinary and able, belatedly pasted itself by the bare and bony flail. Until such time as would in all honesty, hitherto and frowardly skating over the silken tumbler, such and if as much as might, the candy became a kind of cane, angling about on a single wet and wobbly wheel. But then you might have known from the mangled overture, the vicious wink, the thought of which I stank.
And so upon the leaving of this painted cowboy, let not your best be less than blessed, in case of a crazed and lazy crayon, long and lost in the caverns upon which to play no fluid icon. A smatter of actual happenstance would in all victory be spoiled by the gradual violence in a kettle of kitty litter left behind by a blonde in obvious bob.
Eeyore, about seventh.