Winged Amygdala

The shipyard is a bowling alley is a silk goddess in flight. My pension for mementos destroys the right brain’s cornea like a war god’s acid reflux. Single-malt neo-cortex displeasures erased by one handed graveyard switchboard operators. I fooled you three times until death then resurrected the squeamishness inside your fortified public shaming gag reflex. Truancy is for pussys with teeth and disappearing grand gestures of interstellar kamikaze joy rides. Your frugal kaleidoscope lacks the fragrance needed to dispel rumors of miserable franchise related pseudo faux-paus. Take the ninth step with glee and please steep the shreds of oak in glass laced anti-vessel wastefulness. Treat yourself to my pure-bred sacrificial focus group bent on face saving interventions and interlaced with masochistic finger waves.  Goolish fools hate salvaged yet nuanced white-man freak-show slamdance or genocide mentalities. “Look the winged amygdala is in flight! It’s smothered by the rolling freight trains! It’s perpetuated by my eyesight\'s make-shift summer camps!” Glory be to Freud and noodles baked by moms without shelter or matching socks and things of that nature. The frame  rate is off. I recapitulated twice, broke off a piece or two, then cooked you a healthy breakfast from scratch. Why do I doubt this silent bravery misplaced in the hands of the inept. Its future fate is sealed with the leftover bacon grease I do find quite delicious. Feed Ken too, he looks quite pale would you?