Simple Theories

Elegiac synchronicity makes us sing songs to Bill O'Reilly. He moves like the wind, bumping things and things as thing. His money is a big mention me again. I move to his television. He is peerage. So is this sweat from above Sarah Palin. They bring prognosis as an element of surprise and deception. They are that good. I am in their onion. We will kill bears or something, together. We move to our televisions. Lakeside winders of wetness where we frolic. We have the energy of septic tanks. Elegiac synchronicity DOES sing our songs Bill O'Reilly. Moves like the wind, these things hitting things as things. Your money is a big mention again. Did I move television? He is noble. So is this Sarah Palin sweat top. Forecast bring an element of surprise deception there. Elegiac airs his tan. Am I onion? We murder bears or something, Together. Our move to our televisions. Lakeside Wonders MOISTURE where our fun. We have the power of septic tanks.

Engine design in the grey scale of clouds carrying weather to the people. The weather is a staff bearing us in trouble, transcribed for mandolin. There will be weather, icy or still rain, we don't know. We think of John Boehner talking to Justin Bieber in climate-controlled heaven. A bucket hits the floor, paint goes everywhere. In a day there will be news of what in a day will be. Justin Bieber will try Taylor Swift, who will look for someone in the cloud. John Boehner hides his head in a bucket, frisky with soft code. There can be trees, even rivers, smooth oceans for sunshine dalliance. There could be some topic, tomorrow or later today. It arrives in a sentence. There could be straight answers from some control group, that heads the group behind the Academy awards. We wonder if the Republicans even need time.

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 menta...

Treasuring the longest language, stilling the sun. Absolutes of radiation curl over the waiting for spring. Dolts in their jazzy cars, popular moments in history. One day and all the buds of spring become chilled effort reeling in the government aggregate. We can't tell who the good guys are except that they don't exist. Mr President, where is Mrs President? Who will fight the frightening apportionment? Only buds in spring, with their flower secret, and a still resonance of fine cabal. Why can't we live thru winter, all the trees are dire. And the sentence formed of sighing opens doors to just another taxonomy of language. At least the birds the dummyheads fly nicely in the park, where they grind their teeth like citizens. They are only pieces in the sentence, mere adjectives dressed as nouns, but someday someday someday...

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.