Thousands of feet up in tmnt april oneil 1987, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath tmnt april oneil 1987,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“tmnt april oneil 1987… higher… tmnt april oneil 1987… make me burst tmnt april oneil 1987!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “tmnt april oneil 1987, tmnt april oneil 1987, tmnt april oneil 1987!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “tmnt april oneil 1987.”