Stalin wrote the battle of shirtsleeves. His air of dispatch claimed headway. He writes on his sleeves, mails the sleeves. We are Sarah Palin at heart, he emotes. He was fiery. We love that spore of thing.
Cold Russian days came from everywhere to tell Hitler stories of reverse. That started something, altho trinkets of czars and czarinas cluttered every bay and inlet, with a wishing only full of grey. The day comes to even out odds.
Stalin institutes Palin in a probably nowhere beat. Palin is a later date, well set observatory. Palin as a horse becomes a voice speaking for shirtsleeves. That's as may be, mutters Joe. He knows that Sarah's so gosh darn because: Trigonometry. This line and then this line, with a greeting angle, plus more angles (some invisible), tied to sines and language, and the best filibuster in town. It works like this, a sample of the way narrative produces calm.
Further in our story, we read of a heroine named Joe, who was slow to accede. The rights of serfs to be serfs must be upheld. Wishing there were more stutterers and mock. Wishing language was trickier for the mass. Shirtsleeves belong on every arm, and nowhere else.