A single shirk of a tilted shoulder and it’s the sweet sparks that have it, so suddenly soon as when, perchance, they shall start at attracting contrary levels of lap-happy commotion – levels upon luxurious laps of detrimental attempts at never-ending self-acclaim repetitiously meshed with twisted blisters kissed poisonously amidst … … his firsthand pulsating red flurried Ferrari fists

A million miles for one next smile, Michael?

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