It was a cold, dark night, a little bit like the vile skin from overcooked warm milk. The air was still but punctured every few seconds by the sound of silent screaming. Bobby Caravan was driving his Chevrolet dubiously, like the subtle prickling movements you would hear if you were playing an ice hockey match in a brine-induced fever dream. What was this moving, shaking and prominence? Was it a spiritual pavlova? A conceptual blancmange? Maybe even an extra-terrestrial garibaldi debate. Whatever it was, it was a salad of meta manners. And how would he wake to this? Make golf clubs with a wolf?
… You can stay.
Didn’t read this but I’m fucking suing
Damned pudgy fingers, sorry for flagging…
You can’t stay, MPBH.
Who the fuck are you?
I signed up to talk about CHVRCHES and Wolf Alice, not your Twilight fan fiction bollocks.
Fuck off, you fucking fuck. You probably eat crisps on the shitter too.