We swept the fence. My arm was a parachute cannon, nudging the higher Vertigo. Uncle was sitting on a pallbearer—the PB had failed (sweaty palms) and retreated to the hotel umbrella lawn with a VB. He was another corduroy song I concentrated on, moving the caravan up a fret. Entertainment-induced tinnitus in F#, that of a fly buzz or felled mallee. The M came off the logo into tattoo! Glob of spit and a parachute move. Under a carpet is the silo we tried not to fall into aged 9, and I paste it back with butter and eggplant-as-a-verb the gate by burying it in shallow compost. The pineapple was a tomb, and we began an undercoat cracking our necks towards the PB who sneezed up cod lunch.
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