Far, far left. The chosen one who tends to mean to outlandishly fabricate it all.

From wildfire and trepidatious fashion, she will be utterly sumptuous aside quite rightly, bewilderingly beautiful for her italicised worth – memorable, in a most headstrong and configuratively inpressive instance.

And then, she sets fire to his whole arisen universe with these thirst-ridden, oceanic baby-blues of divulgent to maniacally digestive hers – been feeling outright jovial, a chatter-box misfit who shall carry her curdled heart to the chosen one and place it’s beating instrumentation device near his manic reawareness.

Surround, sound… this pulpit breathes…
A piece of his behemoth everything, please…

He just simply seems to want a little, pepper-sprinkled in crazily suggestive anything, really.

The charming man – sits and takes her passionately within these cradled arms

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