We sleep in going marsh, but particularly include clouds. Clouds are wrench fist and then mountaintop. Top is peak, the roof of wisdom, until all that air beneath the feet brings down along a radiant enterprise. I love is the phrase upon nowadays and intended. I love, graceful italics, the union of pleasant and past. given the marsh, and expression database of mountaintop, and the cool phrase of coming days, we can welcome, love, our beneficent approach. We will help where we can, then stack phrase on phrase. Sentences are for anyone, brilliantly. We will find the stream, that runs from the snow, that plumbs the downhill mountain extant, and there we trail. This is our rate and panting. A tributary vets the river, river vets the sea. All mountain lifted in cloud then looking across the way at the next mountaintop, next tributary. All foxes frame a story of foxes. All mountains likewise. People have words. Words are great.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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