by Joseph Mondrella (Author)
Perhaps for owed-selves it's fateful findin', with wit wholesomely, an oasis (cure), and don't forget, in faithful timin', which is totally damn bodacious. With wedged lubricants, inviscid, inchings, no, weren't as useless, as fillings, in toolsets; they weren't some chasers of ingenuine, chipped in, felicities, but thundered, the teamed, unstumped, were more miraculous than pristine silhouettes. 'Twas a world not found within any planetariums, what's greater's not outfitted, emptied slash big atriums.
About the Author
He'd call for attention and care like somebody who's gloomin' that had broken both femurs, half's somethin' not in the big leagues, cometh from he, no third-sixth; he's also possessed 'n' has care like somebody whose rootin'-massed fans don't with foam fingers, that's comin' honestly (strictly) from with love, the pro wordsmith. As a freak of nature's hyped, useful past when its youthful, much like a pavilion, and areas, a sir's primed noodle can't send him to some fulltime dang oblivion.