A letter from a friend.

I was speaking with the bat people about the later induction, which was an odd fervor of never realities spinning like tops into the afterglow of an ancient toll booth guarding a passage to illinois. Seven times i laughed about that spent remembrance, it was so sudden. I ate the interior room of salad stories on the boat over to london's finest restaurant, and mark said nothing about the fine selection of karate flavoured diamond snaps. As The Murky Flask was measuring a mastermind for his garden he spelled the phrase "I've never been soup" into the reiteration of dirt swaying platter stands. Nub swats are landing at 4 am pacific notion. If you recieve a plentiful bland hat, mask it off with ribbing for a tiny little digit, perhaps seven or maybe discrimination. The greatest dance is not loading the silent beeping of a Howard Stern re-run cranking a lever alone in the inky limelight of prosperity. Or is it posterity? 4x7 is the various foghorn merriment not intended for children under cerebral "ifs" "ands" and "buts", swelling greedily, rather like receding hairlines in the golden age of reticence. A single wire passed under the potato skyline catches matrimonial servitude, kicking higher and higher, malt liquor, banana, and why the ketchup angered by the petulant day of your money changing transforms into three simple words - Fozz. Bluv. Gleertific sunrise. I was totally unprepared for dismal structures betraying the breath of cascading filters like gray and pink kittens hugging in the space between the language i'd never heard before and the crack in Mount Everest.