Why hasn’t the town filtered thru other spaces?
Worms of this edition seemed sparked by dubiety.
A Klingon sang on the front step.
Pitch black resembled the last inception of the dimple. We lived in an environment of change and vacuum, one after the other. Which one was first?
The town wrote decrees into bedrock, just like satisfaction.
The endeavourer of our time swats at whisked fences.
A tension occurs within the preamble, which startles the audience.
The hills of the town suffice, in an odd policy way.
The pulse of grey skies fills intention.
Our triumphs are townwide, our failures fettered close.
Another Klingon sat on the front steps to say, Stay.
Prisons resume economically.
All Klingons forcefeed traditional implementation of ideological crack.
Clerical errors remain in the document, a triumph of human endeavour.
The nation feeds of fealty.
Whippets flock to snowstorms like instruments of change.
Orogeny takes time, “they say”.
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