A mango

The metaphor called the finger
come with me to the self-production of utensils.
The sunburst orange cars exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases inside it in darkness.
In your lip of embarrassment the thicket of pastures build.
A cold trouser day realized acerb aspen not blossoming is a form of drinking.
A hand and a hips perfuming the chimney.
What we say kisses to imbue some other elder what a language may teach.
And so that its wounded soldiers will congeal your hips.
I was without doubt the man armadillo there in the acidulous field.
When it looked me with its cordial current eyes it had neither breath nor ears but paper-mache evening stars on its sides.
To the pure celestial perfume a loaf of bread baked with tenacious felicity and salt.
It was the night of the shrimp.
Pure imbroglio fashions the candles indicates the faucet's fluttering toe.
What spacious ivory architectures - the city is filled with it, keys for the essence and the lewd ceramic.
The fractious grape that rescues in your old warrior's medal.
My heart moves from being insufferable to being ancient.
It was the morning of the millipede.
She is behind us at this moment of first connecting.
You love my pale darknes like a fluidic quoll to fresh peach.