I have not.

I have not been touched in that ventricule before, my mine. Their wars have not made me see the dead risen in you either, my main artist. I have need to see the other men in their territories so my main hand can grasp the pale forehead stuck to my lip already. I abide not by game, servants, my name is over there yonder so long aspirator tones every man in me through to every womb there in your cathedral, Gueniever, main commentator of the gests the mind mimes in Horest. The throb off your mane aspires today the open heart of mine through the theater curtained balls over the dawn with a book in their doors. Sticking ajar the old lovers to be deadened because the medium it chose to exhort has never been aligned there before: It is the drawing, of a line, mine of hers, of the Thames, prouded prest, in Havana I have not exhaled, the blow on my tongue has seven wonders, two for each gap between each mattress and your head, Perverse Gunivers! Escape, there the rest, lover of the world, the filed catches the free flees in the field.

There tied the bride stares at the door, she hoped to receive the delivery guy for a short 12 hours signing in the telus cigarette line of party silks and sheets for the acceptable crib. There the table, lustered, the script opened, the lemon seed, the partly smoked hasch butt severed from my field yet unused by the metal head serial acrobat of Telekmad. The net scopes there the bait, the new rising daylight emprides baddies and bud, there moist the hand of my lovers, Horacius. my delightful cherub, the cloud drown in the suburbs. The theater is a marauder. The red spider. My main aerial. My pride. The lake, the mind, the asterisc. The fix, the bend, the stop, the turn to the left...the other bed