Shooting Sixty Four Rapids In the Time Stream

Shooting sixty four rapids in the time stream Powder milk biscuits helped yours truly, a Norwegian farmer wannabe feel bold enough to weather inclement steady rain which swirled, pooled, and eddied around rolled up pant legs skinny ankles, which immediately felt cold, though frigid sensation I extolled before undertow willingly steadily, and nimbly pulled this former ace swimmer into watery fold quelling, relinquishing, and taking my hard won mettle of gold earned early in primetime, now at last...preemptive quiescent salvation sluiced into unbarred Davy Jones's locker hold meeting his maker yours truly made in fleshy mold buffer dis future papa gets tubby old all me eager life possessions long since donated and/or sold, thus the final countdown found yours truly submerged for no rhyme, nor reason told as I blissfully headed into the webbed wide woebegone watery wold. Whiling away the hours quintessentially lollygagging within pristine environs of Bangalore bushwhacking an arduous chore preservation, no longer will eyes explore of course said dreamy forevermore glorious hoary idyll merely knowingly, and imaginatively buzzfeeds capital one desire i.e. alone in the wilderness penchant – furthermore, escape madding crowd thick with village people galore offload mein kampf bon jure yaws true well lee washed away in briny deep pull lore “FAKE," & figuratively, hypothetically, ably tipped, gypped, and drowned ma poor wet tin his every pore, this March 21st, 2023 (ewe could Hermes faintly bleating after mighty roar) of ocean riptide off back body electric far from shore, soaking wet tha top n bot hum 'o me soggy mossy noggin, wharf fanta seas waterlogged optima gills, this papa caught in reverie as stevedore Immune to the deafening thunder of Thor.