Garvey's Ghost

Last night creator came to boss and matched off, we'd expected bloodshed and burning, but that's not the way the situation developed. Give ghost iron to intelligence agent in Senegal, who hasnot used magic sweeping ointment in magician's wink. No one passes by who does not bribe doorman to protect her Audi, medium tanned outlook running gambit upon one another. No one eats. No one performs the mission innocently who expects to live or gain entrance into brazier. To walk to Buffalo and wrap arms around table seating chance and agility, at Chili's. Man comes into match well-dressed, strikes luck away with Mahatma mood, slid under door closed while the band plays with handsome pose, moshpit. Take up an aim, give cause to bandana insignia which covers wife-beater in emergent heat, though by now it would be afterhours, sun setting, and bondage hustle. Slough blows freely in breeze, over Tamagotchi root which becomes drink to atavistic overlook of crime in card-pack. This sedition ripples through self-effacing cartouche, escaping typical evil which must sheep many route to Salem, awash in timid illicit ignition, knowledge blowing us away. Kiss be brother, for I am hulk sewer devouring maligned runaways who hide in me for weeks, delicious to vendetta prowess or grenade packed with nails. We can cha-cha, meow, layout our designs, or crest unlikely to borrow Rubik's cube from mama, covered estimably over drums, roach food.

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