There years were, and as reference, kindly for news. A light in a window one day, clouds in a day with pastures. Shiny instruments paused like roses. We were loved by the time we took. Years of ice and sooner fell in waves before us. You remember, we were kids. We were tried and true, with roses, plummy bright roses. Lights rose from ashes, baskets in a haze. You were tired, I was worse. Plumes of water rose from battered rocks in the edge of something storm. Naturally we remained. Chords on a piano remember tasks of given. Something paused like roses as the green came loose and grand. Someone plays the drums, outright,. As far as dance conditions, and we say our words, the moment rests. Not the beat, of course, but the pasture land between. Holding hands is a careful sentence. Every sentence bounds to further stated. We were kids, and such is as we stay. Piper at dawn shocks my brain. We are kids.
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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