Friday, November 21, 2014

Sword Dance for the Latter Person

Sometimes the stand there in the face of bending while the actual season simpers offering stab wound or panic but the wheel seizes an ivory leaf, the green of escape or town where rivers or just a package from when the time was right.

Later eves, or eaves, and the special sane brushes the talk show off simple margin, you are reading people.

People are the marvel when it becomes time, but time is an extra word, too much, something gets lost. Translation was a door last year.

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