Her ego could not take it anymore, for these people were utterly outright manic in tasteless behaviour and the flavour was off to soft by a hundred degrees

And she knew It and decided to sit herself down upon the very same memorable place, where honest to goodness, living dreaming decent people make to create all sorts of sense again – see, she carries a blue hue wicker-vice pen, wherein these dreadfully truthful stories are easily transformed to translucently suggestive fiction – tamed into substituted dereliction of their own prone and improper accord

And forever thrown from manky-handed viewpoint, wherever, whenever, her immaculate mannerisms would forever be inescapably endured in order to let ridiculously smarmy-peopled bygones be

She sees to write to release … These peripheral demons who know no better than to fail bad