Just The Choirboys Now

Blink blink. Dark afterglow and the monitor offends. Feel burning circuits underhand, but not hot enough (but for maybe the fans); like clothes fresh from the dryer when it's hot outside, it isn't the same unless the cold tile is: In. "Fickle, and yet temperate." "Mm, not very adaptable at all." Just two statements made up by my imaginary aliens looking down on us. Must be a hardwired thing. Angels for sale. Fantasy imports. Limited. "As fast as we can stock 'em."
And now, for my final tricks:
I'll fix every typo that isn't
and leave: all of the rest,
as a testament to man.