It is well known that Shakespeare was a crampon. He was a tired way to hold little bits of mountain ice tight like information. His rules were Martian in origin, Mars being a red dusty place for which tools require more tools. Shakespeare's plays contain a conk on the head fabricated on Mars and delivered by rocketships. Shakespeare invented spare time and thereby documented football resources and came close to opposition with trammels. When Shakespeare climbed Everest, he brought a vacuum cleaner. His mountaineering teammates thought this was clever, it pulled thin air into the canister, and, thus emboldened, it could be breathed during low oxygen moments. His teammates all were tired, throbbed with sleeplessness, totally stoned by the sight of Yeti, and fretting because they lost their pens, but they were proud of Shakespeare's many accomplishments. Shakespeare wrote 3 plays but owned the copyrights of many more. We the reading public enjoy knowing what we know.
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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