Subduction of TheKennedys by before Rob Lowe talks to Donald. A capital TheKennedys most Important of nothing. Bend spending money in language between each Buddha pedal on this semiotic bike going whoa because adrenaline, you fair no diffrent. Periods for saps with nothing more to say rant a bald function for increments of demeaning, like woods before fire. Sow TheKennedys as Camel Lot, the desert of thinking closer. A decade later than a decade before, all along the timelin, sprouting words as timetables. Donald as capital rob low and lower just by speaking in between. That bardo that bardo that bardo…
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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