And all the disappointments connected with, and your falling too. The television employs furtive figures, glassy-eyed protuberances, and Regis Philbin. We have nothing to say, smack that black. A mountain wears thin, over time. Under time, there are moments between commercials. Regis and his sidekick are blamed. We read of alerted heaven but people are poor substitutes for the impact that they think they make. Desperation is a calling, like over that tree where the crows gather. Next is a passage read from the Holy Bible, by an expert in reading from the Holy Bible. Words on words, until the process point. That is where Regis and Kelly come in, paired brightly against satanic forces. Yes, Fu Manchu has targeted. We have nothing to do but bear witness to the fierce. It comes overland, with news from Burma. It comes by water, with opium implanted in the latest plan. It sticks to our guns like we stick to the rules. Regis Philbin tells the evil doctor some celebrity anecdotes. Dr Fu Manchu listens, eye glint. Wash of river over landscape, welcome by sea. Kelly is blonde and appropriated, so that is one starting point. Regis is 900 explanations of want. Satan is not in this story but words from Fu Manchu cause terrible aptitude tests among our children. Test scores are down, school districts are losing their edge, and friends are not friends this year. Regis Philbin will never burst, but dictate and diktat score loose overage on the person who was smoked. Forgiveness is not an option.
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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