No shine on a nine iron could be a match for the letter Teth. Each afternoon with Jerome felt like an insist-athon after which she felt like an over-nodded rag doll.
Jerome's fire hose personality blunted the mirabella sky.
Effacing her masculinity she grazes beside wildflowers and draws perfume rather than claim its neutrality as feels herself still a child girl despite the indifference of predatory onlookers who predate where they can.
Her only personality left in park on the roadside from where she would embark to imaginary rafters flailing against the grain of a premised shared creed.
Greed erases slowly north of darkness all in all protecting her charming heart suddenly embarrassingly wheat penny silence stunning to those affixed to rungs of the ladder tipped to the building gilding the glaze of petit four humans as a plex of next step sexuality.
So much often in the body, loam wildering some of the sonnets of breath-ful arms at night in morning recovering from sleep itself a recovery from being entwined in the dark ruse beneath the soupcon.
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