caged, confined.

one-off wonders. someone chain me. to something nice though - a snack machine next to soap opera box, and cable. because im manufactured by god with hints of testosterone. for it not be you, God -- i could have pledged wholly towards femininity. evening scampered into dusk. extra delusional after Lucas Scott consumption. i know. too yummy to be true. amidst mixed retard hormones, aptly did embed talents that lets this lithe excel in shifty schemes. glorified with dainty rosebuds. perfect imagery of tea party ensemble in my own time continum. adorned in technicolor ribbon. perfection. on-hold quest for, vacay away with femmes and, non femmes. case one : call up man behind scene, provide everyone with dirty details of Tioman. and by midnight, with stems of fatique.. settled lithesome self with diving under the duvet next to OK go and Kooks darling-- ever loyal if not paused. its not a favourite as of late. but quesadillas with sour cream transitions doubtful self into a merry wreck. heck and the perpetuate self paved its way back. i should stop now. too many metaphor. i should go lie down. i have lost my touch. oh crap!