The planet’s fight rolls like weather. When we see weather in the clouds, we loop into the fence of clouds itself. Lowell’s disappointment with class distinctions follows. Tournaments are for countless stories. Boys and girls collapse in those verbs affecting nouns.
Summer will end in a flash of Republicans in stern vest catching fire. This is a Youtube moment. The Kardashian Mysteries mean stonemasons have attached history to the horizon of Kimberly, Kourtney, and Khloe, at the price of agitation. Your fashion style awaits.
Summer will end and Ozzy Osborne will frag. The drummer becomes a passé campus.
Questions stick on actions. Deep Purple versus Pink Floyd: which one brings crusts of bread? I tell you in deep rasp that pittance means much to the pittance-less. Edmund Burke stands up to say, stand down. No wait, he was William Pitt, and he said, move sideways. He had no lead guitarist.
With Duane Allman, a real and dead lead guitarist, stunning makes. His was a 27 for years, a quick call, and then a day of Robert Johnson dying posts on weird walls. Days of electric trick us. Who has more agitation than electric anything? Wars of certainty complain of the people inside. We try to merge guitarists. Duane is the hemp smell and suddenly. Gone is an attitude.
Writing becomes a favour, with people in mind. Something extracts from ritual, like Cornwallis placing nay in one vital vote. Another Cornwallis, be becomes. He stretched from the original find a defeat of concept, with provocation ploughed under the urgent machine.
Kim sips orange juice while Khloe sips tea. Kourtney is the one who isn’t Kim or Khloe. Each sister has two eyeballs, and one sight. We’d like to lead you, stray, they say.
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