Frosty as John Boehner, the fence post. The deliberate fence post of the cross field. The spell of binding in the dark pasture of cross hairs. It’s as good as an NRA pledge for Social Change to lop agreement off the practice of Congress. The darkness of an elevated sky relaxes. Children can certainly eat hay.
You forget, Sir, the age of Re-enlightenment. We tire of old constitutions, old matters at hand. We vivify for the trees used as perfected tables that can be sold for premium skins in the old hunter- based lands.
Big Foot has a temperature, to wit: the cold logic of disappearance. No words can keep up with the implement. Congress contains roots and vegetables, and stones for heads.
With John Bohner and that hairy reed thing, we are determined. We see determination as an outward expression of the trouble inside. Then the congress of Congress, upon a patchy field where Big Foot stands a chance. Relics require that Big Foot remain stationary until the camera is ready. These times are that precious.
Sir, the children must eat hay in our Society, where change is the process of frost.
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