There is humanity in a wad of phlegm, said Karl Rove, especially when my words envelop it to carry bright thunder to the smallest thing. And as he meets Andre the Giant in his dreams, imparting lessons of leaving to the spirit of molecules, he rises to containment. Lax fields of stone and dull weeds can be reasoned with, says Karl Rove riding high on colouring adjectives with mayhem’s responsible victim. The simpleton prop upholding clan class diving over the reaches of plain logic to a foundry insisting on poise and cut off, furthering the revolution of square things clucking clucking clucking clucking hemoglobin revolt clucking clucking was that someone I passed in the river clucking clucking clatter clatter poems are nice friends in suspicious times clatter clutter detergent pants Karl Rove, squire to the proximate haze.
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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