Some Real Convo For Yo Ass

The National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing? If that's stock, then the corn syrup I swill like a hummingbird with a sick yo nectar habit, may really be all natural. There is no talking about yourself in the third person in team, but baby ain't capitalizing nothing until the pesos clear. Caymans? Never heard of them. Wait. Isn't that like, some kind of south american crocodile? Carry that I your damn self. Wait again? Covered like a fresh falling duvet. Shaken out high and then given up to gravity. Like your eyes go down. Lay off of the periods and say something, something to make them cry the poison out, fight fuck or die because it's a good god damned day, and all the plastic in the world won't hold us up. And I slipped of the hook again. For a second third and sixth sometimes: Sometimes I think we're the hatter slowly going mad, and sometimes we're the mercury seeking its level, silver mirrors with navel gazing abilities. Good, great. Neat, nice. Switch them out and off, for digital night awaits.