Var I would let you dad me, I think. Each of your wrinkles fold in line with all the thoughts of mine connected line by line, in the perfect time. You could fold your legs and we could mold our beds into one more causeway, because, hey, there's always more powder. I'm sure. I'm sure you're into this.
Afterwards it's sports for us. On the television. Explain to me all there is of blacks and their ability for sport. Let me know all you have to conjure up in that glimmering containment of thoughts you usher in between the lengthiest and permeating earlobes I think I have ever seen not on a Catholic.
I want you to dad me, I you. Youly. Truly.
And I think you've gathered this and I believe I've slathered this and for this it is you for you are you and you.