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Clangour as a distant reading. The verbs shift over for poems, scat. Time bounces stoat franchise, tempering peen. The furls of flags gravely garner gulf. The sea sucks, says Sammy Davis Jr, as far as alive. Millions seem dislodged in a Huffington Post agronomy. Living testament shirks strategy, gains parlance in rash schnapps. You have peered at Klondike bars, my friend, said Hosni Mubarak. We stand back, my stand in, Yeti, and me. Stark scotch optical verve loses a mayhem plan. Egyptians quarter and tie. The Red Sox simplify. So who is your engine, Reader? Believe negative franchise as a global housewarming. These equations furl, loosen loam, libate. Grass as green as paint, as memorable as paint, as purim serrano as paint. Meanwhile, Prester John the testicle. I don’t even know what Egypt looks like, affirms stray energy pulses from Star Trek starring Gary Burghoff as captain of the. Timely negation. We ran to the piddling, and the storm against all Storm Kings, the fierce reliance on adjectives, the Interstate 95 of all close encounters of the Ford Fairlane kind. My name is mouse, said Rat, standing erect in the Capitol of exactly the sentence. You knew that the British would leave New York sometime, leaving Washington a presidency that predicted Ronald Reagan. You tease me, said Gary Burghoff said Gary Burghoff said Gary Burghoff, supremely in rerun. Bagpipes skreel on a positive note, left dockside, and a cat clambers about the boardwalk.

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