PT Haters Solved

An obscure passage contains Padmé’s killer, the biology of having “lost the will to live” flying under a plotted ruin, the immediate annoyance of its acknowledged inexplicability concealing an unseen conflict, so why can’t applause, instead of derision, redirect a winded intercourse that simply doesn’t understand what happened?

Below a plate purges Darth Vader’s chest, injury ducking beneath his crisis, dangerous grime reflecting a palace after his discovered paranoia achieves nothing more than cracked gold, his wasting religion fueling hate toward his fertile wife while Obi-Wan Kenobi, his faulty predecessor, invigorates the relationship.

The notable Anakin monkeys around with Palpatine, which is the reason why the Chancellor, a boss and an architect, fools the alarmingly oblivious weekday rabble throughout a reassured farce that cheats any susceptible detail, his spent consultants, the Separatists, raging without true ownership, their institutions indulging in projects against time as a choir refunds the unwelcome threshold of their deaths at Darth Vader’s hands.

The spinning senate pod seethes in a supposed palace as a peculiar clash between Yoda and Darth Sidious tutors the prequels’ critics, convicts polishing the needy philistines above a dance, the popular media authorizing their somehow credible evil.

Can an ever-changing interpreter retract a statement before attaining luxury, the matching freedom of the prequels’ art suffering after the comparatively wooden style of their contemporaries, who baffle the flavors colored across a diagonal sun pair, their knowledge stumbling upon the prequels’ supreme computerized imagery that fears the observing initiated, a cult electing a sane set of questions for said interpreter?

The killer quibbles beside inconsistent trouble, an electric cage veining a blanket, The Matrix Revolutions as the Emperor, for example, a stretched angel apologizing as his sister, The Matrix Reloaded, marries the turntable senate pod with a noted past, an incoherently-speaking immortal who staggers next to a former friendship.

Underneath this writing process exercises a needle, its component wealth toeing the line outside any governor’s fabric, doctrine itself thirsting against a blast, a fish’s body exploding with a decent, nourishing extract for a bigger one, its no-longer-beating heart silencing censorship, the reason why balance cooperates below an inviting reject in the form of Jar Jar Binks.

The understanding appendix, The Force Awakens, finalizes the flesh throughout a surviving tidbit, AWAKEN = ANAKIN, the welfare assembly of opinions on this waffling, its mild museum zooming behind a forum actualized as a condemned thrust singing inside a whorehouse.

How can an accomplished overtone recover Padmé’s body through the sampling of this clunky tutorial text, and how can air breathe should the shouts of childbirth size up the droid doctor as an assassin, the tight remainder of this message paralleling the eager industry as an alien fandom reads it?

A crushing feeling advances throughout the musician who is George Lucas as the heaviest platform in society lurks outside the elephant in the room, asceticism hurting that toad with long ears, and should an interim tome flame an upcoming tweak, another goldfish will fork the drivel of this past year's motion pictures tumbling downhill.

This diagram breeds a scenario opposite an ironic whoop-whoop, describing the way to interpretive freedom as the alleviation of a sinful limit, while I collapse expert slaves who hate the welcome dish that is the prequel trilogy, those strangers obsessed with counting how many of its objects appear on-screen, singular wisdom guiding my writing next to tired fingers altogether bubbling the most realistic verdict imaginable.

The alternative rents my bounties around a tame opponent, a broken academy, and as a weekly approach to this forum hurts the continual suspicion, a peripheral text bubbles across a fragile office where the grounded initiate, Cryogenic, who gets the practical joke that he is Kylo Ren, chats around our unique beach, where justified prayers never quibble.

 

OP, are you Jesus?

 

So the legend cryo has disappeared. Good post op.

 

What in the... hell??

Have a nice day Pyro

Edit: are you actually Cryogenic?

 

Thread got me like:

 

Pyro. The fundamental aspect of life is contary to Mustafarian culture. Padme is the Xeno alien of Scientology and a true leader of the Federation. Contrary to Star Wars 3, 4 comes after and then 5 and then 6.


BOOM! BASIC MATH!

 

I tried really hard to translate that post to English, but I failed. It's surrealism.

 

Maybe Pyro can figure this out for us

 

Pyro, if you release your abstract experimental music mixtape, I'm buying it.

 

9. The crystalline committee, this forum, links utter disregard to helpful assistance, reacting to the topic well, hasty poison not naming a wasted bed in one’s interpretive clinic, instead tasking a strange album underneath the green fairy, an aural interference escaping near presence, renewing metaphorical sexuality prompting a legendary conscience, a chunk comprising both candies and costly conjecture, that wandering analogy rotting within a dash – this variable broadcast itself rotting the forest of cosmology that advances a spy (yours truly), an anniversary mimicking the prequel critic’s brand within a newspaper image, the meat of the situation portioning recruits above any cloud formation, those shapes that tower over our competitors like ugly stalactites, their complementary flags headlining their contentment with the shoe-horning of facts, for they are princes washing their egos, their messages glowing before their traveled kernels can plant themselves as killers who root for the wrong, Padmé’s rattled physique cheering for a harsh disclaimer without the simulated bandwagon of money crying behind her funeral, the true cheer exiting through temperament, her likelihood of happiness failing across a shining myth where a favorable wedding chapel by the lake toes the line throughout the poorest of Imperial reigns, a neatness skipping along a revolutionary ray birthed by exploding oil, expanding as a sunrise trips this listed authenticity striking an intuitive nerve, Star Wars-inspired pleasure biting those implemented teenagers whose mothers also read their posts as these newly produced participants compose, a brigade offending a superficial trend amongst the fandom just like a house ghosts the logic of appearance with a spigot spouting mud, a love staggering a signal, or a telephone call ganging up on history, the nearest substance lumping said extremist’s oil as any dissimilar material dictating this analyzed transcript, a fake soup breaking outside a diary, the aforementioned beach erasing each discriminating ingredient over an autobiography where an atmospheric yawn rails against every march, the sort of fat air balls not scoring through a demolished sequel to the semi-finals, a ritual basketball game described as the corresponding, downright female stone investing in pulp fiction, a billion players remaining inhabitant, a penalty boggling, the basket sustaining disposed trash, the rookie puzzling outside the granted entrance, a transformation dining with a drowned field goal, all as a coach inspires a reverberating whoop-whoop.

 

This here is reddit worthy. If only I could give you gold..

 

The hilarious part is that Pyro sounds totally normal on the phone.

 

I'm not surprised. The internet doesn't show the real you.

 

I still don't get how that response has anything to do with the Beatles track, or maybe I'm to dumb to understand it.

 

I guess he's got a dual persona.

Then again, who hasn't?

 

Ten dollar words combined with nickel valued thought....ah how easy it is.

The combing and charismatic parapet vaunts itself above the streaming glacial spirit of the undying sister we know only as Padme. Her force, a tiny bead of flaming white echoes, reverberates rubber like both in time and in absolution. Were it not blue scolded Skywalker breathing backwards from the mask of unending flatulence her flaming bead might pinken, and therafter burst in orgasmic explosions of furious delight eminating from the ruined Sabines of Palpatine's fungus.

He doesn't like sand. The Ewoks rejoice. All is well.

 

Okay. This avant garde.

 

Apropos of our circumspect OP: It is indolently compelling: that is its axiom is seen quite simply.

The haters would never be magnanimous, presently submitting their opportune concessionaries, yet, I would be remiss to assert, lest we, in regards to our benighted contemporary JAR JAR BINKS, surrender herewith any such fortuitous tergervisation, we must consequently be intrepid (as is the wont of such FANS of suchsame FANDOMS) to present for our diligent and careful ARGUMENTATIONS the following:

JAR JAR BINKS' intellect proffers no import ex nihilo. Indeed, and, emphatically, the inverse is evident QED. The Lucasian reverberations, their recursions, their recourses, their assumptions of pertinent proclivities, as reflections and recursive reflections, which is to my audience what I hold up as a MIRROR, and to that end, I find it consistent ad toto and well contatined within, as what learned individuals among us call MATTER which constitutes our very being. This I know to be clear and true. As for THE FORCE AWAKENS: they will see no improvement if they anticipate the like. As the shepherds noted: et in Arcadia ego.

 

Okay this some next level intellectualism

 

I tried to understand this lol...I feel like he's got a point written somewhere in there but I cant get it lol

 

I love OP though. He's like some Psycho Social Chemical Electro Magnetic Manipulation of Human Consciousness.

Also, just for fun

 

Deliveranze Where did the McCartney gif come from?

 

Just typed in avant garde gifs

 

I'd say OP sounds like a paranoid schizophrenic. It seems like what they call "outsider art."