It’ll not work. It’ll not ever get blown right off. There are particles shooting from the sky and they scream. 
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi must be the machinery of magic 
by which the utterances AEIO&U are but five figures of the supreme godhead. 

If I am to be saved out of XYZ positions, there now a nigh godly. 

If I am to put on a directory of teddies in case your wormery gets a bunch-o in case you need to stroom over great expanses, there now my seven faces share one death though they be dressed each in bronze transmission. 

This is the smart of my example target heartrate. 

A vanishing crème in which I am rubber bobby set to record facts. Then woff, haft, in the past, at home, you too—

What Colada sees in the vord this day is nothing less than the creation of fresh centers of force in every neighboring object. She becomes less of her own self and more of our sorta-data in which her particles alpha and omega interact such that neither can be described independently, thus one becomes the disembodied sacred heart of the other. 
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