Fruity flocks

Standing in the passage of time, clicking my fingers to the adorer’s vulgar spleen helps me understand the need for dementia. Not that it breeds yet another grammar nazi or crumbles a well established amnesia, but the blur is just too vivid and cholesterol free to be manned by more than two bandits. As fruity as flocks get, this one is particularly sponge-like, reminiscent of the barbwire mandibules of ancient linguists. The clustered cultures of late are the defiant answer to this gaffe, a sextet in the closet is the assurance that a tan well done is a tad, well, done.