Reminded of the day melting into the sun, voting differently. The wind of autumn washes the leaves and they fall. Voted for all the good things, standing at the top of the list. People were reminded of the day, melting into the sun, that harsh of summer. The voting stopped in letters then filled with gasses. Aspects were derived from evidential pouring of water into vessels, and the evidential lifting of vessels to bring water to places. What sent the voting steering? When summer falls off, autumn stands on rocks, and ferns now shine in a golden extreme. Questions are part of answering, if we have to have dialogue. A vote goes on the board. A rock called Romney relives some lake statement, water gathered for the extreme earth. We stand for words as a source of pouring water. Water is the reserve in which we find more words, and the meaning in words. Words are always poetry because we cannot handle less. Romney is a statement for words being poured into a stream that will flow into a lake that will let the water go skyward unity. Obama is a forward tract of spacing words within paragraphs like ladies and gents at their apogee. Still reason wants to resort to goals. Poems are just words, or words that could be, just so. The sun that melts all melting means words are with all that all can hold. All should be all, even if stupid.
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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