A: If I were a brand I would take pictures of myself in glitzy blue underwear and tell everyone that I was god wearing the sky.
B: God, the walls can be trying
A: But never hold me in?
A: Toast. I like toast. Buy my brand of toast.
B: I bet you like orchids on toast.
A: Because they split me up with their jelly laughter. My toast is hot.
B: I wanted to tell you all the things I keep forgetting. Wet between windows, visual oeuvres, meta-intelligences, scripting your spring. Bride's head revisited Miss Havisham in the sag of a tummy. Cup her pity. I want to see the orchids on toast because I bet it fucks them royal jelly. It carpels their tongues when the bankgrip soldier has again been added to the list of fog cottons.
A: You split my garbanzos, too much heat.
B: I cook in a Southeast tradition. My tongue is sweet
A: From all the fire. Brand me.
Brand me.
Brand me.
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