Dawn includes something drifting, like continent. Dawn invents a vestment, cooling breeze, studded clouds with the effect of reaction. A federal opportunity mentions Chelsea Clinton, her wings, the barn she left, the vantage of the brushfire she will marry in triplicate. The caring public snorts with optimal cumulous. Organic reaction stops rainfall at the threshold, starting with the Bill of Rights and moving on to other damp documents. Rain will provide a forest so that Bill and Hillary can install a map on the plain features of dirt. Chelsea will spring to mind with every Joni Mitchell song played till stopgap, then the lank Republican buddy system will trim morass and moraine from budget-minded challenge. We will have to repair the ocean soon.
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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