You wren cocked when The Byres fluted 8 Miles High. An easy disaster, telling shift from not shift, all spun. Jimi Hendrix visitation and collapse, dead pool for Jimmy Page. Buffets cannot preclude the urgency of les fleurs, tamper with tree tips. Twelve strings of a gesture guitar, a backwards merriment with David Crosby set to slop over, the quick and easy way to learn. Raga got together. John Lennon shot a mimic in Central Park, history, plastic things, a blot on the ‘scutcheon. “Your lions are fighting with chairs.”
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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