Blessed the pilot program, ramming thru. Pilot Days and tenebrous flyers. Cold air cutting under wingy for-realers. The pilot light hole, blinging and blinging. Hole in the heart of the damp clothy clouds. Sound. His voice sounds like, in the ears of my huskiness. How did you grow up so, bro? His bass voice flubbing the butt of the lord. Of soppy coffee on my table this morning I am all about the liftoff, whapped in the whiskers. My pilot-faced pilot, piled on the drive.
Day I am coffee my self made with filters. Shitter of coffee. Sorry for you. Of days my life is a run on the way.
Note to self. Steal apple buffer.