I want the fucking beach. It’s oil season. Slather me in glistening sunshine. Let me burst my vanilla. And I can’t stop shaking. Broiling is what the cooking world calls it. So scoop the pan. Let’s get cooking.
Sand is everywhere. Everywhere. Only wait out is movement. Leave your coat. These are ocean breezes. Nothing left by to suck on this finger for momentum. Show this privacy the respect it deserves.
Worship what isn’t within. Nothing like a bit of serenity to dip with. Housed in the romantic. Brought on through a passion. Everything treated platonic. But we all know where this is going. Maybe tongue?
Someone enters and introduces their self to a television. The stair on everyones’ collective face. Fluid City in a colony of agreement. So we all beacon in BKGD Audio. Swerve when necessary:
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