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Ask Your Ventilator

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 people have spokes. All postal workers from Massachusetts receive prawns from Mars. This establishes motivation.

Later assertions will begin sooner than expected, since time has been busy. Dick Cheney's brain is a chance article of confederation with the smell of blueberries on a broken porch. Bundles of affordable housing use modern ramjet technology to assuage the impatience of socialist medicine. The future looks dated.

The aliens have the daring-do to assign mumbles to pinpricks. We call those little fleas stars. When rapture is rumble on a stellar summer night, cold sweat masks the bargain right. We voted with our hearts, which Dick Cheney takes for granite. That's nothing, says the drummer for Procul Harum, Jim Hendrix bought the best.

Weaving these strands, muttered an alien with straight cast eyes, produces apoplexy. We nod in our lakes. Great days are ahead.

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