That trifle called rain drew interest. It greyed the sky opulently with a cold drama that we read. The rain fashioned itself as water and let gravity pull. The rain found the earth and that which covers it. The rain reached to places because rain is water, like us. We entered the earth with the rain and found the rain. We drew breaths of water and saw a grey sky. Something splendid could occur even in the sheen of water on a leaf. The sheen on that leaf states a case. It declares that anything could be something when we look. And when we do not look, anything is nothing. The rhythmic splash of rain on various earth articles produces thoughts in us. Today, the rain makes Sunday. The candidates have shaken hands before. Our next president throws up his hands, which sounds messy. Again, today the rain makes Sunday.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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