Lots and lots and typically cliche spheres and tubes only made the exterior look like an artist was alive and well, as well as being artistic. Off the horizontal edge of the balcony a picture of a hill, just one, framed by a semi vicious awning, rectangular open at the bottom with a man in the middle, an artist at work on his worldly erotic.
Late in the evening as he tucked himself into bed and kissed his relentless manhood goodnight, two lines (two that soon shrank into one) circled in his head. First I must be a prodigy child, and then does it mean a lot that I'm hardcore. And it was then our man discovered that the night is is fine time for the erotic on paper. In the morning his canvas was torn up with disgusting, but the spheres and tubes still had him feeling special.
Once he finally slept the next night after that, his dreams saw a flash of old school schishk! and a thick hand pleated catwalk. At the exhibit of her masterpiece there was thin blooded stale in every shot, If only for a decent photographer. He slept without fear that night.
Another body joined the basement, making six greenhouses rotting perfectly for him in three even rows.
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