"Auhaah"
He dragged leery loops of air into the oesophagus allowing the contractions to perch on the railing of rhythm, in turn projecting such nosy noise with eerie etymology. The salient sigh meant a lot to him at that moment. He could say that that was the only stimulus his belching body had responded to since few hours ago.
He couldn't be outrightly sure if that noise or rather sound he'd made earlier was an offshoot of a sassy sigh or a yearning yawn. He hadn't had anything since two days. He had only feasted on a little lamb that had crossed his path a day ago. He'd seen a lot of those creatures that were quite archetyped to the one that captured and brought him to this entirely new neighborhood. He could have shouted out how the whole seeping situation sucke
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Tiger In The Street Trieze
The willow cloud cremated a charade as its feigning alarm foiled the mood of the hay. Scrunched sky skidded, smothering salient seal, hankering hay hoisted for other luminaries to behold. Dark dances persisted as a dirge was enthroned on the lanky larynx of bounty birds blown hither and thither by the wailing crescendo of the nosy nature. Order began to mate with malady as the sun edged to the west for work out.The order of the tenth heaven had began to trace stripes on the back of the order of the jungle. She knew that all those were the entourage of a good thing that would happen. She had no idea if that was in any way related to the coming home of Machli, but she could feel a sting of joy reaching for the cleavages of her worries. Yet another feeling sprouted, snapping at the jolting joy birthed. She was made a pawn to both felon feelings.It was unusual that Botha was seated with no interest in what was going on around him. Reag
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"That's all I can say. All I can recall." The rusty rays emanating from the flashlights of the cameras had begun to wear on her consciousness. She was becoming irritated. She wanted to push through the press, push them down, but courtesy demanded more than that. But they didn't seem wearied. They weren't satisfied, they wanted to ask more questions. They've never been satisfied. Probably that was an entire course on its on: NBTOAQ 121 (Not being tired of asking questions). She scoffed, sure of the position of her gaunt before such would reincarnate yet new questions. She signalled to have a way, amidst the vociferation and clicks. The session with the governor wasn't as pressing as the press'. Only that both had been a little bit of a faker skin. One being the cremated clone of the other. She recalled how she'd won the a
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"Woohuho." Yearning yawn yucked. There he was, wielding wanky thoughts that had been severed into smothered smithereens by his pride. He couldn't had kept track of the taunted time. It wasn't his thing to do. He wouldn't know how to do it. How would he? But he could easily discern and draw an inference on the maladious movement of the sassy sun tossed about by the saucy sky. The trail of tales told and maintained by the hampered hay seemed to let a die roll along the boulevard of mystery. He was enjoying the company of the hay, but he knew quite well that he needed more than that. An urgent wile reached at his consciousness, fighting a hold with a ferocious zeal of shredding the cremating consciousness. He was there because of the biddings of the proxy. At first, he had
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"Let's come together for a tale." He had felt that moment. He had savored, but there it was. A reality! Botha was already a year old. Reagan, few months ahead. The sun made a gullible groan as the sky wretched in pain, commemorating the tale his thorax was about to let slope. He was really glad. It feels good to be around those who love you and you love. That's the best definition of an Utopia. He had then gotten to know more about the elevated ones. He had discovered, that their were shadows of the evil attributions he had once ascribed to them. When he had gotten to his motherland, and the door of the mini-house he was in was opened, he had ran to the cave but couldn't find his family. He had ran in raving rage to where he felt they would be. His fostered feelings didn't jilt him at arrival. They were chained,
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"What exactly would you say about it?" She'd been nursing that idea since the break of the stanced argument. She would do everything to sew or well, cobble the broken. She needed to know his stance. You could scarcely make meaning of the position of such a guy! She kept abreast each rhythmic sway tossed by his voluptuous visage. At a point, he seemed to smile. Bewitching other, he was serious. Like a confetti of mystery merged by inky idiosyncrasies. Though she admired sundry things in him, yet there was more to be known about him. She should appreciate him. Matter-of-factly, he was her hewn husband! And what do you do to what is hewn? Her attention was smothered by the whispering waves of the sea to the wanky wind. She wished she could make meaning of the coded converse that ensues between natural elements. Sometimes, she wished she were the tumbling tide that nosy nymph toss abo
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"Just the right to heave the last sigh" He flexed his limbs. Throbbing thorax was in gay. He felt surges rippling within him like worn waves of the sassy sea. He wasn't actually hungry, but who wouldn't make a pawn of whatever time leases to him? That mutter he'd fostered at the birth of the scene was owed to the gazelle strolling, unconscious of the doom about to be drawn on his peace. His pace wasn't to stir any of the three familia, but he kept abreast of every moment of movements the trio pruned. His jaw was rehearsing the usual. His peace was being smothered. He merged with some dwarf pastures, and forced his moist mass into such heights. Whenever you want to have a meal, you'd do every possible thing to have it served. Provided that you haven't been whipped mercilessly by hampered hunger. He was saw one of t
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"What plea is there to make?" Those kinda gaze you foster when at the prime of annoyance. Like the track of your face become decked with varying emotive biles. The go-fuck-yourself kinda expression. Like how would I give a damn about what pricks my ire? Her tongue actually had been faster than her thoughts. She could had held them at the nick of escape, but had a rethink of letting them go. She wouldn't at the consequence scoff. She was ready to take responsibility for the semantic denotations the contention was draped in. She looked away from him and wanted to stand. He reached for her hands and pulled her back into the seat. She was mad! Like she was going to run mad! What sorta a guy was he? He wasn't going to repeat what he'd said, wouldn't head to the next point, but would only keep her sitting on go-and-say-sorry-to-the-literature-teacher. If he was truly what he'd professed himsel