Simple naming, blur sound. My dad had a table and Janis Joplin stood on it it and wild. Those days imagined a process of evaluation and moor. The rock of leaves and trees in water till lots of spaces between. When the number includes the endless vowel as testament of sorrow on the edge of time, timeless is a town by anything. Those days of just enough to loud, to over ear the letter of the Dad, generation. But in rations of slower down to word, you could say the structures were made to be resisted. And the Dad that had to turn away to die is a vetted program called life until you see the same same thing. Dad your, sun, like it is that easy, down by the green wood.
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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