Blunt Wraps Wholesale

Porte-à-faux

She do not love you. She loves your catachreses. You are his bard, that is all what you are. She loves the energy of the river in its bed. Be a river to love it! She likes thunder copulation with the inflection of your rhymes. Any letter of the alphabet that makes you write cum lips. Be a letter of the alphabet to love it! She likes to see transcend thing, it could become a light to see the light turn into impulse and momentum in turmoil ...

She likes the tumescence of his chest when she learns that love makes you Ahani, he does gush his bold debauchery out of your body and the walls of your room, he impetuously swept out the windows and that it is bleeding under the edge of his insatiable lust exhilarating that you resurrected.

Be a seraph, not to illuminate your plethora of allegorical when you lean toward her, but she make you fall. She can then take action against his insatiable femininity and the trap of your verb. And maybe she will love you when you become another ... You delight, imminently, to contemplate the distance, waving to you, in the twilight at the top of his tower, struggling to discern the alteration of your soul with la pépie que gagne ton corps.