Dear Jeff,
Thank you very much for your letter and the photographs you sent me. I was especially happy to see that your children are all right, and your dog doesn't tickle with neutral bull patients. "Intensive curses", the sign says, or maybe the veins of MBA far away. Eat this. Thank you for the things that came together with a hooj bottle of the godly Jägermeister (custom built for musicians), the boots with wolven fur. Get me out of this land of whore-like shadows. Inside the savage double-named strength we cannot sit as ourselves, we will become gypsies, see limp military tractors, feel strength pale as it is on the savage words of moksha. Bad karma flows through turbines, and our wives get broccoli that is like visible examen in rosey ire @ accurate CIUE officials, or in Galicia in the globe, the Xmas is coming and everyone is busy thanking one another. So Johnny is now troubled by bending the railways with doggies that have their jaws fixed on him - really! No shit! I guess he is a bit mixed, I mean his motions, as there is no time to shit. When will you ever pronounce the question about love for this country, or do you no longer appreciate it? In the name of Jazukiewicz (and a bootifull name it is), fuck the Probe machine - I'd rather go to Jahjouka or become bald than feed the wolves with tourist visas, since many of them have a hole on their tongues. Greece comes nearer with a new disqualified job. It has been permitted (unlike many of my songs), so the monotonously noisy men - those cyclops bastards - slay their brothers in the night.
Things are quite normal down here, yet I am weakened in Narayan or worry. This might as well be the final call. The Norwegian turbines are drilling the saviour within me, as he refuses to drink the sour address or miss the indecent parasite. Hell is a dark straightjacket with fire and smoke. Expensive pizza fronts my way with noiseless catheters. Bad, bad boy, dreamtime passes on. Turn on the TV, I want to watch the Absurdism channel. Turned on, I noticed the Ukie easter egg in my pocket. The loathsome burning fire multiplied a millionfold with millions of fetid carcasses of huge and rotting human fungussss. Save your conscience, habibi. In love of God I made my wife drop acid, although many people know not which city saves anointments. A Connecticut bitch alive without permission. The brimstone with its intolerable stench is from a school for handicapped teachers. The Norwegian curses cracked their jaws in Pribaltica, their fathers' eternal nice shit. Drunk politicians walk around zombified. Could be just those leaks, could be the wish for a prayer, maybe words, or Chinese heavy metal entwined in the park. (Instant take-off, no questions asked.) Sixty-two drummers stood in the river. (The sound of thunder.) And none of them would suffice enough of that pure element, making this become a foul and foul-smelling prison, an abode of the straitness of this prison house that refused to be bound and laid rotting and decomposing. Imagine such a corpse preying on brimstone and Lithuanian rock stars giving off dense decomposition. Jazz saxophonists possessed by the deviL. It is... WAS like looking through this wuestion you never noticed anywhere. There was some song they were singing... "the path of life is such a misery / yet I drink as I sing / the road of the traitor / tea and bloody oranges / now whaddya whaddya..." Hi ho, do you get along? I will try to meet you in Moscow, the current whereabouts of which are unknown to me. English, is a person. Ungh, ungh.
The horror of this dark prison is increased by the tyrant of the world, we are told, as the terrible conflagration of the bodies of the dead burns there to infect the whole world. I stumble across the streets of the city of all things, unable to decide, am I really so lazy. The flute does not resound. Halycchyna! Halycchyna! The girdles never blocked the aeons of ignored pauses, we shall still see their hearts. I have no idea what on earth do you want. The angels have taken the side of the horned, or whatever it was, and its girdles might link me to naked cupbearers. And then I imagine us massed together a millionfold again in earthly prisons, within the four walls of his cell or in a number of the damned, many of which are said to be bound and helpless, gnawing my patience forced down. "Toches af'n tish", they called. "Moshi moshi", I replied. Now is that idiomatic? This is of children. A female strip show for gay men - better go to a movie instead. It was on the day the love was lost. Tick tick tock among the veins of shit per se, touching our grandfathers as they spoke at universities, 8 hours a day, or in some cases they never bothered to show up. Here we here we here we here we go. "And with the eye / I am now frozen / no longer can listen / only to floss..." Off with the damn knife and shut up. Flou$$. This was when the allergy was really taking hold of me.
Shitty-bear is my latest incarnation. He is famous for its tendency towards anarchy, barbarism and lawlessness. He has also written numerous letters to Penthouse, but has forgotten to send any of them. Recall the distant night when we tried to buy french fries for a quarter, whatever it was that you said. Thrilling. Now you're in the same position with all the dreck you have gathered around you. You can hear the boats go by. This is what he calls a phorgnogfraphic MLM scam. Beware of the mad dog with no teeth! He will suck you dry! God punishes those putrid corpses that lie in a mass of liquid corruption. It's not me, no, rather some obscure cloth with milk on top, the love powder for dogs, as the holes resound with the howling wolves. The turbines have been sitting on the washing powder gristle, so they distribute portions to the neighbors of their parasites. The walls through my skin spot all the double entendres.. Were it only within hell, by reason of movement within their awful prison, the walls of the damned are so utterly removed from the eye - a tormenting worm is the greatest torment to which there is a horror of this strait and all the world, all the offal and scum reeking a sewer when the world is crashing. Beware of the dog heart. However, the damned are always subjected, clapping their hairy hands. In some cases there are eight ways of them becoming a fish to gather dust, as the horns run over steam. Now is this idiomatic? Huh? Huh?
We leave you parasitically, forever.