The bloom and rose felt okay in the sun. The bloom is all that time bright thing, the rose is not the bloom at all but where the bloom can be. See, you vote for bloom in the tower of rose. And all the eagles of all the skies look unto rose and see bloom. You are not the cast of vote that makes a name fall off a tree, but you can learn to eat English, spend Spanish, change Chinese, and all for a better whirl. Thy ways of time in words closes massive doors and George McGovern. Theses sicken with dental floss and families. Registered in heaven is not a joke! We want a wave in the dark that settles fashion. Let us elope with a sofa while these rising plans come to terms.
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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