the akward fist. title of a lost recovered hidden diary entry of an ancestor

shh. ouch.
listen hear.

in the writing.
because it's not Uranus' anus mistooken pair of eyes.
eyelids. that's why a playbook is a reason you're recognition of the 5th sense. recognition is a 5th a sense. we're not tied here. blegh.

(this is a left diary,
found, I'm reading from)

starts, like this:

shel as a dimepiece, se Brewt fire in a hckey rheind of fruit to say christanthiums are only a kind of Nash's to advore. or advertise.

leave tea leaves when u read dhis. contd out of the lure and you've exclaimed you've got a time in your e enises hands Ruth a cough2oo yew are a genie that the melencholy is serendipity in blooms of creativeness and crash. of a water jump solash like may. was marinade. of one for thought. though,

miracles, like baklava, are June to be a plainly written twain inbetwixt. these are writing tips. Shiloh shame it's the use u never see out.

over you

unless you're reading with rainbows.

that pause there. the breath. the one 1 oo where a silent mistake is in the teeth of the moment. not chaser on a track circle. be he about to overtake the champ.

that's why I told you not to worry. don't mistake that. a fireplace in cat at cup uta caging out catching the light off the window sills is relative. but not like rain rage.

it takes a lot of love

it appears to end hear, the rest of the text

no.

a good book would do you well. stufy th

it fades
not the seasocon nor a Mohican tutus I tear without a ogi lurch. a morning Lisa is not the answer. something like that is ready to be read. but not finished.

you can see where the stains have thinned the paper here. making it kind of glow.

jump out of the playbill shirt. stir and allow your thoughts to marinate on the paws of the deer of light.

because it's not unanimous or anon to be theology of some minutes of a track meet.

close your eyelids. or don't. but that's never a trapper. it's a trough from which the horses drink.

aarishina, it's is got it down now. the letters printed that being. shh you e dovetailed into cannon so don't prove that wrong because it's worth your smile.
 but I'll be -

so numbering, that's forgivenzhia. via was there. unless you play no tic tag tah alligator with the bullein that bulletined your mind and Hdeart heat of silence.

but remberembence, like drunken love. like november -

fades here

but that's how you know the writer of this was like water and ice in the time of their sorrows and joy in ringing that. I guess.

not a fake character, not a month of the moon or year that left none asking where that donkey on the Montana ride was dreamily written about.

the answer is you always had the asp. the abollity. bullshit not.

and rain, don't kosh here, is like heaven on a snowy day when he ground is dry and sojourning o heart hair. overature self. solo Jason definite miracle. like soup.

if we codify the tombetime banjo videogrAm.

in betwixt the candy bar. or licorice.

you always, I guess sir, had the map. no composition works.

and the ground is snowed and pray in holmed.