The bass player in
the middle of direction. Time passed filing date, a logic sent from
when words were. It isn’t easy. A sentence has flowers for
approval, late in the rhythm of only a poem. You want the people
whole. Whole is the heaven of inside. Words as a direct sort of
godthing, laden not prepared. We aren’t the nation of knowing, now
or today or the last thing left. We have to tax and look around
corners. Well. This plain where the dogs and cats adjust to no dogs
and cats. Specious remark left for the space between us. Donald all
trump, you are the gorgeous loss lit finding not a pasture fit for
approval. The sun was blue.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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