Light shines on a language sometimes, the case of request. The tallest excuse for Ann Coulter reminds us of the delivery of carcases next week. Swooning for jury duty, the people en masse reply to emails. Emails contort the conviction of the true depth of pond. Likely, Ann Coulter's body construct (words removed) will float, until sink.
Every pond relies on someone, someone who will write poems on haystacks and figure Da Vinci into scifi stories. Later generations rely on these people to inspire sparks until haystacks will be no more. It is a curious circle, developing perplexing corners.
Ann Coulter reminds us that geese are attached to her patient reply. Indeed, her power to conceive neural platforms of dismaying matter assures her presence in the national dialogue. Strange geese she inheres filled with marvelous quaking, as if the earth itself were the earth itself. Ann Coulter is never wrong, in the sense that she is never, ever.
Surrounding the pond, then, becomes a lack of duty.