The sentence factor
by which we say things a bit builds great momentum to knowing the way
down a street where sometimes. Effort along routes that mean so, last
time or maybe. The sentence factor supplies everything tho nothing is
a lot. The sentence structure wears only, instance and because you
have to listen if not care. Drown again, just for show. Each word
comes to a conclusion with a tap of meaning implied. Wind in words,
as a memory cap. Trucks contain truck, dogs dog. Sentence factor
endlessly.
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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