Chopstick, the bird, gyrating bottle circumnavigated around a bubble of champagne soap, a shower of perfumed flowers engulfing the garden, a river serenely piercing the aqueduct and a horse journeying around the countryside. But everyone deliberately failed to remember that once upon a time, it was a gateway of caramel calmness that surrounded her crust, a glamour silk translucent light – oyster fountain of juice, lemonade of darling lollipops and a dishwasher of elevated gospely pedestal.
She artlessly succumbed to the hollow, consenting to the demands of her obnoxious asserted generational wantings . However, as strange as it seemed, repulsive as they may have found her, they were ready to give her props and entertained the idea that the bird was actually being candid for once. Yes, she was. The revelation was so intoxicating that it prompted the other birds to quickly deduce what went down with Chopstick and despite the sturdiness shower of jargons, the detective work went into high gear anyway.
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