Inside this encapsulated beau mont, alluvial sluice drives target question from opulent audience reactor. Thus Obama as a figure of parchment-like equation. We read the matter less than thoroughly, with prime or more in mind. Years turn, and we seek centuries. The country, which is leftover, seems diminished in radiance, like a chest of drawers. Robert Johnson in a roadhouse sweeps up scattered dimes, drinks something awful. We are right in our church. Desperadoes inveigh against blanket statements, using swaddling blankets as emphasis. A Dick Cheney lurks in the offing, like a porch. Inveigh against plovers, the smell of Hawaiian coffee smells delicious. That is to say, disjunction is fine in a credible world, when you can leap over something stoned by mere appraisal. Colours look like alternatives to sound. Would that consist of plover's walking in circles, or Cleopatra mustered to glamour by marrying? Outside is base maintenance, like original cattle. Dick Cheney lies on the bar room floor, and lies again.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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