The Inquisition resembles framed debate, with flowers transmuted into toads. Toads are all right, fictions with tongues. But we must remain cognizant that climate change and claptrap produce farms. Why is the big unknown.
Benches of grey strokes produce futile farms. Fluency exercises create our future. We aren't tractors, we are men and women, perhaps a few lorn children, okay some dogs, cats, a dolphin or two, some wax figurines, a bit of lint, the point is, we create meaning just by standing by as time passes and then passes again.
This is the signal moment, complete with commas. Semi-colons mark the moment when something included could be left out, straightway to the center of backing away. That's why we bully children.
When not bullying children or implying immigrants or examining our inner lint, we have the scrumptious duty to appear focal. The farm must feed the billion openings that may say Yes to the right No. It's a program or problem, whatever
Meaning
produces candlestick
wainscoting in a brilliant
littoral waistcoat. Wow means
faddish brilliance, same as
children. Our best pants tell us everything.
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