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Slap a Label on It

The wind of the final continent blows open the porch door. The oddity of porches suffices in ventricle pause. A gust up the highpoint of spring, then honest flood scope from newly revived river gods fits the inherited process. Goddesses align with non-goddesses in politic credence. We are talking about so many things at once.

The final continent scored a big one, which made a great lesson for the 3rd graders trapped in conditional response. The 4th graders felt shirty. 5th graders were almost rare in the gleam of their imposed glister. 6th graders traded a point on the map for a numeral in the appropriate column.

7th, 8th, and 9th grade are exactly the same. Bring on the taxidermists!

10th grade means minimalist. 11th grade consoles the plaque left by the class of never after. 12th grade becomes the final porch before the final continent. And

so you were saying that the excellent death of the roused ingrate constitutes a plorable fence for further non-discussion. And the corpse sent packed and packing, looming among fishes of all order, sensitizes the minimum to the grandeur of max out.

Plumes are for the birds.

Initial consonants prepare the word for the endorsement of sound. Each language stops when iota is done.

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