Banished, most suitably, by the posturing elite, expansive in succession, following, meekly, but a casual and fortunate power siege. The hordes, Sheila exclaimed (yes, Sheila, the heroine princess, rejuvenated by the irrational reappraisal - the haunting taunts of ubiquitous fetterment). I will not be [slave], yes, I will not, she continued, her English but imperfect. She is conned, hmph, mislead by intonation. A far unusual excuse. We have returned, dear martyrs, to plant this filthy sword in the washed skin - no one is to hijack the purposes of our novel journey.
Earlier, deposed by the starlit interrogator, she proposed, but only in hint, at a collaborative piece of journalistic expose - ultimately, a short fact-based (meandering) perspectivo. How dear! The proposal, authentic in its bold and humane intent, was flatly ignored and later discarded by each member of the ruling parliamentary. I am freezing, she admitted later, smoking, outside the embassy, embarrassed by her freakish tanned skin (in the kremlin).
The opening prescription, prompted I am certain, by the disillusionment of the state (yes, yes, by the aging and fretting male population), called for a disarming of adequate and functional communication assets. In a nutshell, Sheila shouted (you pigs!), the racist fringe has demanded a reduction and elimination of the overly archaic scientific process.
It is our return, consequently, bridging the gap between two generally opposed but progressively united counterparts that posed as the reconciliation of the red block, the iron curtain. But these were just feeble interjections, anecdotal in that they witnessed the surface, irrelevant in that the surface was no longer dictated by governable laws but instead, of course, by visceral supposition.
I suppose, really, it is not possible. And I am only crying, Sheila announced. She was bawling and had two hands in her pants.