This is highly irrelevant to the absinth: the thalamus has its own rules (unannounced) and tart smell of sadness.
A dedication on the book supplants the original author.
He/ She -- hereafter known as subject -- traverses the hedge maze at Schönbrunn Palace. It is open to the public during office hours while everyone adds curry to the scandal.
The lab mouse is cirrocumulus, curdled milk, a bulk of geese.
Why eschew this self-portrait as if a subliminal process had taken place and saccharine came out of volcanoes (extinct)?
Subject wants cranberry juice, Dolby Surround, blunt scissors, copper blue.
Both selves would like to buy a vowel right now for a flying potato head title.
After hours of polishing the silver, he/ she gets is a reflection: a flat chest that may be epitomized as hairy up-close.
The meticulous sinner always goes back to square one: abduction, Adam, adultery, advance death benefits.