Sunday

Now then

Jill held fast a furtive fort marrying her knock. Her query and inquiry beast to her tearing phrase. Not a whore to the guardian ange of tawdry poverty but wealth to her abundant becomings. She hied to the wooded held over the wound. She's cocked her ninny at this poop but the coast won's stop her giving nor top its hidalgo. Cowboy hat thrust in her hip pocket she's got the old jewels tucked away . And the sun knows less than she.

Advil adds its pain to her couped up Soup. Not a lather penning this missive but the old stoic plain doxy and her fellows feeling fine. The pretender assuming lovers as none coming in the breach picking up the dead.