Dear Fiend of Strife;
There is a gross stick of a man; bloating the font of view in perhaps the cylinder of books and we are harmed by the fixation of font and tricks of curtails; He won’t take no for an answer; and he had found you to be quite fonted out of the toilet; he has also been unable to hasten those in circumstantial curbs of short.
When I picked the heavy tricks up in my arms; we were hearted into the floors carpeted into a vacuum; a polish man’s regurgitation non cig stench; screams in the elevator about getting in and getting out; a cart that made no sense; the blasphemies were too toll; and my back broke as the non colored woman women stared at the scar.
It’s the same thing: woman is women; bet you didn’t grow.
I hoped in a man that was not a brother [cc: to me] to save me [?] while I lived the green of whistling guns; in an armor required for their safety; that most men couldn’t ever yet grow to lift. It’s why.
What a happening hope.
The wto are not possible. You shouldn’t be both. Of those things.
Being colored of course has nothing to do with race; but sometimes races help the process; of colored.
Is a vase a home.
The most important thing is that the work doesn’t get done.
The work has to get done.
She’s too vain to get it. So is he; and he and he and she and … so on.