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After Shocking the Saints

The tribal long grasses of firm autumn pre-describe an initial point. Valid in most states, formless in function, they prepare the user for the diversity of offense. Winter bears no questions, violet iceberg. Today starts the endless aptitude test with variant rugs on the cursive floor. This is becoming language, tho we regard ourselves as sane. Accept the natural loss of poised sentences, words can’t employ meaning in this need. Words have only dental notes of identity, cooperating justly with the affluently dead ideas on which they were based. We can elect all we want. A tribe still needs a blank page whereby actual constructs of logical impetus tell lizard the time of day. This time of day is lame.

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