Jennifer Aniston was a flattened pungency but okay, Donnie Most had flowers. flowers bend to truckle and tone, which damns sentiment and wings fieldstones towards nascent spurge. ranuculus (meanwhile) spoil for a fight, which will include the diametric repetition of Jennifer Aniston walking down the red carpet towards the certainty of slagheap. no other prediction fits the tomb so well. jonquils fritter away in snow, then undulate, and we all go sex bomb. forests are deprived, like normal children, and the wind from moose-ridden Maine collects in bad breath. the world stinks, because it breathes. knowledge base, however, smells like teen spurt, but without the market share. Donnie Most is a heroic dimension of inquiry, fan-based, and a free iPod in the middle. sentences are archaic, like attachment. Saturn is festively ringed by dust and shit, but the tonal message still seems opulent. we will want to collect in Afghanistan and fix up a world. a poem is posh. it wants to be treacle-based ontology but words are not marches. thus: Donnie Most and Jennifer Aniston reframe the question by asking for residuals. those are awesome spires, like in your own dream town.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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