Ankyra Sound twelve-hundred people dead or left to die

one more from you missus *-* edit: swear to god if i have to edit one more post for grammatical armageddon

near death experience: the archangel of petite terrors; the solemn toll of death that rapped the door of its cretinous sucker drawn to the dog-ear of its holy chapter; the saliva glazed, fury whelmed, friendship potential death-rattling struggle between canine and playwright over peppermint and a state-of-the-art curtain call.

amidst the flurry of contrasting shades, quoth the raven, boisterously: "RUDE! RUDE! RUDE!" he continued to smack at her with his powerful wings as she set tirelessly upon him like she had upon the liver that would ultimately be her undoing. she was rabid – hysteria beset her and just as well maddened her.

and maybe, just maybe, the bird was finding himself at cross-purposes with a beautiful phenomenon called "karmic reckoning."

just as quickly as she had attacked him, caiaphas withdrew from her homicidal ambitions, propelled backwards by yet another disabling washover of digestive grief. bartok didn't have to poison her, she had effectively completed that task on her very own – slopping down the tainted organs of a mammal she had chanced upon with no knowledge to call upon of its condition of health prior to its death. the gamble that she had taken was sizable and here she was, paying for it.

and here bartok was, paying for it, in a roundabout way. slicked with sputum, he dredged himself into airspace with mutterings of chagrin floundering on his tongue. "don't play with dogs. don't play with dogs." was his mantra as he flew awkwardly back into sequoia colonnades.