The ramparts were full of tools. Each tool had two legs, to support their fact in motion and complex time. This was almost the year 1861. The tools produced blurry words.
A slave is a handle.
In all the centuries called the 21st, there are people. They seem sensitive in their virtues, if virtue is a tree burning for laughs.
Glenn Beck has no word in him.
No concept exists for the spruce tree that will display bold symbols. The ease of bending toward a gravity action is a subtle human character. We can blow up Palestine and Israel with any heartbeat. It’s a justice we learned to employ like taxes.
No word wants Glenn Beck.
King Cotton forgot that he was flammable, and that was a mess. You read the years and everyone’s sad. No one makes one word better.