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Homer Does Not Supply Our Only Version

Soft fronds in the dire dirt, logging traces in the body. Soup passes misery for the school of aching. Politics slips posse into possession. Extended version of the same thing goes all directional. You heard the clip clop of hooves, pictured everything in the basic nothing. So did I. The guitarist on the stage relies on a mirror into which every spirited retort can be redounded. This is a specious sport. Activists have hardened. The neutral basis of caring surmounts intent. Those rats scurrying have their dinner to attend. Weeks and postures go by, serious in the din. When we leave this flood zone, we expect a better place. After midnight, we're gonna chug-a-lug and shout. In minutes, hours will go by, then days, then history itself into blank places formed by assertion. The body of the words is dead, but that does not make them any less said.

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