The pressure of Afghanistan, for instance, it's a thing. The turbulent mountain area around groomed for something, then air strikes, then dense sentences. We could ask for more, when the lakes near towns wobble with human-like weight. We could ask almost more as rain forgets the land party, struck by cackle hand of. We could forget more and say the land was right, almost any. But we make claims, fill notebooks with details, and call things things, whether they are or not. And when it becomes debated, the air is rotund, the moon a casual camp, and each star drips sarcasm. Thus it comes down to. When you catch a glimpse of the candidates, tell them they say so.
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...
Comments