Tuesday, December 8, 2015

What If Diligence Was a Floor Plan?

You have to be stupid pile the way home granite. Sure you unite integers and what. Then you see things in small things that are like large things only less large. Small even, tho not to say small can embrace large, unless the proctor of all fences sees a plain view sorting motif aligned in doctrinal or not so fine distinctions.

You are a tree.

I have to state that you are a tree because I can only see trees as reasonable. A bulb holding its springtime belligerent flowering is unreasonably reasonable, and not for this time. You need a jetstream, and so forth, a fancy climate thing.

We are ready to ignite human things of human, If the sands of worry glow from nucleated impact, can steel beam make building dreamscape American hates?

You are a tree with an asshole and an open mouth, and a vent for meaning either way.

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A specific tree laden with elements, sponsored by no one thought, found elegiac in the dropping of its foliage.

A person same with sky full of ejected words clarifying a certain grey earnest steel pouring core.

The news becomes glaring but peopled by a sorting function that ranks. Otherwise we enjoy the way water flows uphill for us.

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Angels of Laughing start into the ordinary trees. Pressure causes emblem.

Words equal mask. No language exists in this lack of patience.

The republic smells like the grey fern-like aged sky where lucky raptors cling to oafish clouds. No news of strife is grand enough.

Stonehenge may have been built somewhere, asserts Donald Trump.