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Discretions lurking in the subliminal shadows envelop my thneed.
Why has the plethora departed? Is it not my pusillanimous behaviour sinking slowly into a gloomy malard? Notwithstanding the obsceneties aroused by such perpetuous delirium, to leak, no, to snooze my buttocks into oblivion, into the chasm of eternal spam, I rest, I frolic, I wander ever onward to my malodourous larch.
I sup my cup, and hold steadfast scrupulous domains of rudimentary protuberances.
But what of the trilateral porridge?
Have I not traversed the nodes of gregarious institutions, hoping for just an infinitessimal moog?
As the preconceptions of iterated cabbages penetrate my ambiguous malapropistic delusions, the wafers shall not decree, and wither in the way. No, nor shall they, for my secrets remain to them as a misconceptualised asparagus of voluptuous antiquity.
How can my cromulent expostulations embiggen such perambulated congruities? (congriguities??)
Why have these paradoxial assumptions displaced my treacle?
Is it not the treacle of old, revealing itself to igneous rocks of the cretaceous period?