Y. DeCarlo V. DeLillo V. Palillo V. Papillon

At least three signals mentioned the promise of science expository and lack thereof (it was DoonRobbie, Dahlquest and MoonsOverMihammy) and that is true, no zen balance, no Jack Palance, so it goes, Nick Lowe. And here it says that truth chilled is nonetheless refreshing, but shunned peoples are cold and group people are warmer, and your governor was Mr. Freeze. Popdelia is conditional but operational, and all relevant submissions to the state have been irradiated. Some distract more than others, and the particulars of cognitive dissonance are few. Not my chosen field, but the clarity is apparent, apparent clarity, and Carmen Miranda stirs an aptitude in men that is kept under tight and doleful secret in Arizona’s so-called “belly bunkers.”

Disclosure: this tiny projector on the wrist casts bright truth up to 62” diagonal on the subway walls and tenement halls with minimal discoloration. But for my in-studio requests, I’ve dropped my harmonica, Albert. On point, science does not swallow RFK in the EPA, his autism stance waning on its theoretical vine, but then again, Valerie Perrine. Everybody has their faults, mine’s in California, systemic pandemic epidemic Lee Remick. When you least expect it, expect it, in the form of a rubber hose Horshack.