Registers Her Delight
Greetings, Flowers For Brushes,
If you can ignore the creature behind the door, refrain from fixating on the doorknob, then leave now. Otherwise there you'll find the ground beneath you to be spinning emptiness. Trap doors swinging by heels over the precipice which is upwards, arms wide, and the cosmos will scrape across your face, 11's all around. After disassembly, no more Will against any Which, which withers about religious Rotation's lattice lowering into shared air guided by the singular purpose of glossaliaglossolia, lives a tangible fictitious love friction whose center is an unknown piece of the stage, while all remains a completely mobile system.
1...2..3.4! Arms up! A tight rope chase. Forget yourselves in the fields, until elevensies, oh peacocks tight rope courting. The feigned disinterest of a haughty female humors persistence asking, "How do I put this into words, nicely?" you can play positive through the 775776 if you wish, chorusing at Wits B. End, asking, "Who is she to whom jazz pleaseth not?"
Leave it as prehistory, where, drawing out great thready loops in the sky, she paints the lights out cold, not who you thought they were, seeing her message through to the very end, end. One last caveat: Wariness of one's Own projected into judgments may be crucial before any attempt is made to float deep before sinking upon the Socialite sound.
Sincerely,
Your Lovely Socialite, A.J. Grimm
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