Gods of worded forests citing temperature in words.
Theory smoke after draining the glass.
The glass becomes a lasting word, and we start again. Each word is a merry freeway culled from a forest of mountains. Enemies forsake the trees and vote numbers on their brows. We envision a poetry. It looks like a matter of planing the surface.
Twisting integers like fracas in the trees. We like round numbers, more round, more better.
Squirrels equate with evil smirk in tonnage. We proud to relent to mystery race. Each word becomes merry fairway culled from the blank forest next to downtown. When we invent trees later, they will be tailored. Exhaust pipes will be tailored. Tramps will be portioned equally, town by town.
A town happens now and then, with people, and without the people really people.
You learn to adjust worded forest.