Cracky little angels dart across my butt-field of vision. Weirdness behooves me. Only my insides are shaking like crying jelly.
Green jelly ellicits special fear from small children because of the firm principle of illustrated texture.
Fuck little pieces of gold ring. Yellow circles of mighty ore.
Tiny planets on other people's planets beneath my children piercing into each other's bodies, accentuating a curvy pleasure dome. Masked guilt cycles around your life because every time you orbit a rocket on something you expand and contract equally because the force of your flesh is slightly thicker where it has been visited before by others.