National history is a day like tuesday. The splendour or course river acts like a word, something daily and with rivals known for boats. Picture that raft on that merging waterway, a sentence for future heroes. That cast language of a politic nation stands for difference in tune. Sudden use cries a harping on the worst day of yammering. The blues came from the fount where drinking true water each of us, and sundays in the park, and lifted daylights on the beachy sands of seacoast, and mountain hardluck reverie waystation till the moors pop flowers in sbundance.
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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