The wind was of fear. Paul traveled from so many places at once but could only find himself wondering, why is this the place upon I’ve surmised. To feel cold, to wonder whether coldness itself had become a proxy for his own sexuality, becoming where he was was not a task for a rabbit, but rather a financial Inquisition.
Kyles found out. There was going to be a founders meeting and he was invited to attend only in secret. So boring. Who wants to go to the red inn? Treading water is a dangerous game in a pool of unbled soft power. The game was going to be pick a dick. Dickbitchh had already been on honors dumb ass bullshit chinese woodstock edition card game trading center.
Paul searched inside himself but found his dick to be rather protruding, to be honest it was forthright and of a Sicilian bargain to be so invested in what would come of a simpleton. Paul drew a picture in his mind. Of course it was robust, finally coming to terms with a reel abstraction, keking about when of no one’s partitioning a wager was to be had.
I’m going to illustrate, Paul thought. He continued, to the id, to think it. He kept walking, holding Felix and Matt as he searched for someone to carve his preemptive into itself. He was going insane and noone in the inn seemed to take much offense, if it were not for an endearing childishness that came about nearly organly.
Miles was waiting at the door. “Come in Paul.” was all he needed to say. It wasn’t enough to hold hands.
Charlee had to watch.
Charlee was disgusted. Who says they are gay without saying it.
Kyles was angry. Before Paul got to the inn, he had been waiting patiently for a chance to see, whether there was anything to be seen at all, what would come about from the private gathering beneath the shortcomings of their competition, the tech squad.
Piles and piles of cum later, Miles returned from the shadows, hungry for something less obtuse, wondering still, and creatively astounding himself to the company of the four archers on duty.
“Hello, would you like to shake my hand?” Miles asked wittingly destitute.
“This is no time for your tricks, blackish.” remarked Balthusian.
“fuck of” miles yelled silently, and there was an air of confidence in Richard.
There’s no more time to see the enemy. You have to go now