Paramours smell bloody money and...who am I to say? Phrases enter lexicon-unlidded, tossing off to the hat rack (always desired) and flicker-fixing the game to be televised and profitable. Second consciousness here, what are we talking about? I is a trowel, digging a two foot hole for that which has been metabolized like a god damned responsible citizen. Dialogue, what are we doing? Rosencrantz will not be pleased. Escape the unending idiomatic cliché machine! Desperation's a driver, baby. Confidence flimsy, status whimsy. Side beta won't omega and alphas bet their farms on high frequency crypt trading; death is a salad.
Roman Ryan 