Drifting Falls

Phasing between the dick-numbing taste of reality and a silly, iron-wrought daydream about **** stars smothered in applesauce. It takes a reliable method to tame your oranges, and to tuck them between your nodes, plugging their meaty sockets with bundles of succulent nerve has, mellow brass like pus. Crops yield the children of the sun. Solar dick stuck in the dirt ad spewing a sunny seedy spray. Deflower so some flowers can grow. Plain dirt with a little bit of grass. Alright. I fell into a boat on a safari cruise in Disney World from my latest goiter-explosion vacation, my eyelids coated in crushed gallstone powder. My eyebrows were wintry with the crusts of cold mashed potatoes. I wiped them, and they flaked. I then stopped to watch a man swallow a sword. He chose the claymore, and his throat split open. The crowd was aghast. Shortly afterwards, his assistant came forth and declared the audience 'trolled.' The smoke machines reminded me of the sweet swampy stench mists of my friends toilet. It was right in front of his grandfathers bedroom door.