In the piano of soft features, with a plunging sense of Justin Bieber in the graveyard, the close grey clouds sort omens of political gantries. As much as the weather sequesters the sun, the beaten path remains beaten. And now the Republican icon in underpants of the finest dumptruck. A legion of words trips from its mouth, it says so. And Justin Bieber has a coat named Prolix so that he can relax in the sand with his parliament. These are the days of this way.
A later generation will pine for trees, as if lateral movement makes net gain. That's like a bank, talking. We cannot afford nets, when smallest victim is named Ion or worse. This is language while Bieber becomes the institute fulfilling a poxy governmental agency intent on temperature change in every room. The map says hi and children go to the mines.
The real state informs the viscous matter inside the briefest of Republican heads. Arch Democrats try demotic, only they can't cut the Biebs. All instruments are mental, from now on.
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