The Palette Of A Palate Is A Palaver

Time now to trudge our way to calm. We shall enhance our gardenia afterwards with an equator. Time is out loud both a grandeur and a serenade. Syntax handles whispers to precipitate a source. Independence is a cloud of mustard. We mind the attic above while wading in its insects.

Discuss a cram by wildcat. The fox is a wound in the hammer, a hanging cartilage we force to exist by building it. The feeling of the gym has an accordion calculus that a few struts give me contact. Wedge an innocence into my groin. My groan is to your merit. The hope we imitate is our palette. Think of it as an allegory entangled in the neurons of a bee sting. It’ll feel corollary.

Vertebrae. This reality is a burden. It’s our hammerhead by flipping a voice. One must treat images like birth. Plant willingness behind it to expand. Cog a need over a toss into turpentine. Here come the virgins. They paint a pretty treasure for the canvas and sell it for a song. 

Mine is an easy scenario. I expect little from hair except space. I spur a dusty anticipation. My threatening does this. It makes subtlety taste like exposition. It explodes into ghosts, which resemble words trying to hug a sensitive propulsion. My impulsions have led to not a few personal discoveries. I was told I was too miscellaneous. I can’t deny it. I really like fanfare.

Tendency has a name out there in the wild and this goldfish knows it. What friction combines Euclid with my oblong might also be an odor. I scrounged for an answer that wouldn’t clash with the rails. It’s a mood we clasp with what unfolds. What else is there? Nudity upset our migration. It continued to fester until I began wearing Baudelaire's play. If you’d like to hear the tale of our wallow follow me to the squashed prohibition where we yanked my moo into a throbbing goo.

A canoe falls in its shadow and awakes the forest mushrooms. A palette fretted to death has implications for the colors of autumn. Begin above the oasis which is piquant with my delight. The version we have chosen over all the others coyly embellishes our taproot. Our focus is there, asleep in the morning. It’s a funny habitat, not the kind of place you’d expect to find a sneaker floating in words. I shall sow the mud with azaleas and find some proper lighting for the oysters.

I’m trying. I really am. Trying to find a formula by which I may recreate the world in the image of a cockatoo. My consciousness would like that. Or at least I think it would. I never can tell. I can be quite resourceful when it comes to dangling candy in front of my mouth. When it’s raining in my mind the wash is ablaze with fatalism. There are just some things one should never take too seriously. Percolation, for example. Or the crackle of bacon. Taste itself, which is our first explanation for memory, and which extends the spirit past the scudding clouds, in blossoming moonlight, with angels on the radio and sagebrush in the beams of our headlights.