Status cult, thank you for ruining my ten years between nineteen and Saturn rerun. Your teach-student tutelage, gave me the right idea and I applied it to logical wrongness. Many could testify to the ambit gambit that meant not dominion but a trillion points in the game whose score is indetermined all the time. Genius addiction, you rang next. Or on the orders of the same. A! 100! 99th percentile automaton. Carried the one to become One. Monotheists foreshadowed the eventual path of the lonely angry sad dejected wish to become a legend in the minds of the greatest minds. Fairness potato, your hash made high the middle. I bashed my head against organs eyes and zation to structure to restructure to revolume the decibel mess that amplifies messes, ages, and so-called brutey. Et tu, Grasses, your green is the subject ive. End of story? Yet another: the narrator's house, where in your room, all your own, you'll spin the seeds of the great universe's novelty. In briefcases, Tolstoy lengthened the days while wolves settled our bet. What's left? You: asterisks. Exceptions, blinks, ambidexahedonic tread fires grip roads like you cannot believe.