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Noh Blast in a Peat Bog

At times like these we have times like these. Winds fritter clouds and something falls from the balcony. In gaining speed, the thing illuminates the need for an atomic bomb to end all atomic bombs. When the atomic bombs end, so too World War Two. We’ve read this many times, in the lines on Ann Coulter’s forehead. N o one is left to laugh at Ann Coulter. Her virtues are crayons melting on hot parking lot creation.

Later destines tell Harry Truman that peat bogs originate in the mind of the clever. Ann Coulter’s heart is a similar stone. Let us all wince with the retards, the burden of energy is consuming. What if the layers of ideas between us were immobilized with a simple tsunami? A leaf falls on Canada, chuckling about the mountains left behind.

Everyone died perspicaciously in that special blast, and that special blast’s later town. It was original to the text, and the text had corners. When no words are left, seasons shade in meaning. Silence is pasturage for ages. The vote for nothingness continues.

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