Wifflepit Benson-Hoyt

We would call the fellow weerd, and we’d be right. Then the mentals happened. Far-worn sheeth metal haberdash of salt electrolyte my fire. Ferry mons happenin’ a curt window of ditz mallow drama. Surest soot and such when a tatter comb or throwing knife was lodged amid the Kronos a time man, taken to pieces by soft cake and genteel deliberation. I am talking directly to you Maurice, stop the systematic dissemblage and suck on the gestalt of the whole chalupa.