Suddenly, out of the Age of Commas, the children, the children, the unspeakable forgetting ways of finding ways. Saturated path congeries revolt in a parcel called hm, Orrin Hatch. Redoubtable expense account freely lifting other children to place on other children. The spores are free.
Suddenly, too, the Age of Commas. As a reliable dock fence, you stop there. Yet a sentence like Mitt Romney, like drinking from a can of water, like proviso providing for proviso until tears the coast with storm.
Frisson says sentence ends where the next begins. Reading weary path wouldn’t know. Inauspicious children at the door, each with a comma for the next in hand.
You can’t be 8 o’clock in time for everything, says Orrin Hatch, rendered almost possible.
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