Frisk the man boy drop kicks tons of it. All over him and he don't care. Swamping out his toungue to a full crane of intimacy drives a memory deeper and the grass remains like a chink, rasping a leathery bodice across grooves not yet cut.
Ice cream syrup punctuates the lurid fact his thorny collegiate just don't get it and ain't never gonna. Still, so silent, a thoughtful Sand Wink, subdued as ever in wrinkled helmet, entombs the corn as a trump or deck hand must; but then such sullied notions obviate only drosser concerns and thumbing the latter invalidates it. Aluminium breath crumbling the night sky, Frisk backs away and strips in jazz to the flourescent bungee ramparts combing a song. Tracklights wisp.
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