It says women and turnips have molecules but is that right? Is it right to share things, overdoses, meandering pines on hillsides? Is it fair for the molecules to hold things together. What is together anymore? Will words work in the forest, among pine trees and mushrooms? The background noise insists.
Turnip women arrived with their vote. They all named their dogs Rusty, after the candidate’s worldview. They all faced town where Rusty bit Socrates. As a candidate, the rusty man was led toward a circumlocution that swerves to hit trees. None of the trees were married or cognitive, just fit for voting.
The moral equivalent of moral equivalence rode over the trusted streets with a soothing bump. Mileage was wonderful, spectacular, and reassessed yearly for potential. Mileage fed the vote, the vote fed the candidate. All the molecules got together to say so.
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