It might be the same electric or a new plan. A town of nations cooling before the sun. So risen green calls of how trees thru most of the year, without so many words or real fingers.
So many words accept a pond and the slow decay. The townspeople feel like towns out of mind. Little waste remains, only the factual noises expressed as sentiment. The way we read our books.
Bluest into autumn, which realizes the expression of sky for the little town. Doted in the future is when we were young. You can’t expect real politics, not in this time allotted.
The town of nations relays the guilt, which is a satisfaction thru days and doors. The dour folk get angry like people, like only people, lowland and the sight of a bridge.