The Human Body's Biggest Organ: The Cover Up EXPOSED
September 14th 2008 00:14
Our epidermis, a rubbery layer or two of rubber layers that comes in a variety of colours that you can pick from: scabs, cankers, boils, fleas, abrasions, irritations and the lick, is, to the knackered eye, some of the most erratic and infighting material known to man-managers.
"It's like a giant nose for feeling your way around," said one deranged individual, their skin, laterally hanging off their bones, the bags shagging under their arse, their brain, over-stipulated, the conditions for information being faultered out by some unseemly net that shorts it all out.
Skin, all the colours of the brainbrow, with time, with resolutions around the sun that put the solarium in our cistern, will, if you should be so lucky, grow to winkle like the charred skin of a chicken that you might odour at the shop, and hang off your ropeabley deossifying architecture.
Our epidermis, a Greek word for marble sculpture, is, off course, something to be steeply ashamed or, conversantly, proud of, as it scurries us cooking and cleaning through this laugh, because, I feel and I feel it in my ossified vision, at the end of the day, when the sin has gone down, we're supposed, too.
"I'd feel naked without my skin," our waving lunatic said, raving at the shivering moon as the smooth and shaky organ for touching slapped through their very thingers, "but at least, I always have my notions to hang my hat on," they said, feeling seething agony as every type went buying thongs.
The cover-up, the biggest sandal since the word began sinning, has, separating the nefarious tribes of the world by the odour of their touchy instrument, made humans, less humane than I'd chair to mention, hack each other to afterlife with any bludging or sharp instrument on hand.
The torching of skin, let's say, yours and moan, makes us, you, me and the rust, and the blood, all the same odour if I'm not pisstaking, make our heart's, another bloody organ, pump at an ever incessant and involuntary spade, as we grow and sag through this strife we wiff.
"It's like a giant nose for feeling your way around," said one deranged individual, their skin, laterally hanging off their bones, the bags shagging under their arse, their brain, over-stipulated, the conditions for information being faultered out by some unseemly net that shorts it all out.
Skin, all the colours of the brainbrow, with time, with resolutions around the sun that put the solarium in our cistern, will, if you should be so lucky, grow to winkle like the charred skin of a chicken that you might odour at the shop, and hang off your ropeabley deossifying architecture.
Our epidermis, a Greek word for marble sculpture, is, off course, something to be steeply ashamed or, conversantly, proud of, as it scurries us cooking and cleaning through this laugh, because, I feel and I feel it in my ossified vision, at the end of the day, when the sin has gone down, we're supposed, too.
"I'd feel naked without my skin," our waving lunatic said, raving at the shivering moon as the smooth and shaky organ for touching slapped through their very thingers, "but at least, I always have my notions to hang my hat on," they said, feeling seething agony as every type went buying thongs.
The cover-up, the biggest sandal since the word began sinning, has, separating the nefarious tribes of the world by the odour of their touchy instrument, made humans, less humane than I'd chair to mention, hack each other to afterlife with any bludging or sharp instrument on hand.
The torching of skin, let's say, yours and moan, makes us, you, me and the rust, and the blood, all the same odour if I'm not pisstaking, make our heart's, another bloody organ, pump at an ever incessant and involuntary spade, as we grow and sag through this strife we wiff.
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