I drank coastal waters and they were good. I drank calibrations funded well and beyond, and they were good. I drank Republican aptitude test, and they were good. I ran into an insane farmer high on inspired hay, and that was good. I paused while words were used overtime, and they were good. I incited a ballot of clear, determined verbs, and they were good. I positioned, that was good. I called Romney in the wee hours, when he was stripped clean of words, and the lump body staying there for all time was good. I started into Obama because after all and that was good. I posed as good and that was good. I thought a rat was a boulevard, and that was very good. I learned to type, and that was good. I thought the squarest head of Romney was traced in lightning for the future of erasure, and that was good. Good is not a prince or princess, by the way. I popped the question, which was good and good until the question popped back. It popped back. It was good. I thought that there was a land where we lived, and it was good. I think the frame is trembling.
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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