The Secretary of Stories woke politic. In that engaged cold wind November, slightly stiff stopping in the woods. We have to have 1950 tell us Moon. It refines in verbiage branch, which means they said they said. Words cart over tumble to explain how and when, for the practical good invented in this space. Is ever semantic word freed beyond the coastal waters of needing to say? Which practical invention says the lives of anything could be cured? Having deemed local Republicans too pro-helicopter, season the Secretary of Stories for the long haul over rocky roads.
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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