The laughing child was seven years, or five, never enough. The elected stood on stones. The tower of their abilities combined produced height called all the ever. This could present a charm in the entrance hall, as hordes mumble over their next backtrack. Chasing seizing trying hard, and the laughing child stoops to pick up a rock. Rocks are great towns that you throw into seas, rivers, or lakes. That’s why we vote and you should listen to the towns. They sink like any sun in any sky that has been lost to reason. The words for this are poised and great. Dear Barack, Dear Mitt, thank you for electricity, and stating, and concern for your fellow vote. We are in heaven, talking about the grown living pleas of feldspar, granite, even mica that snarky see thru crystalline campaign. Someday Barack Romney will be a man, and if that maybe a great,. which is a mystery enthroned in the cackle behind the scenes when we are fencing for sport.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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