Angels are like fuck off, oh my god. Weak sanctity blurts oh, the trials. We fly by natural right, thinking big time. The marble of awful correct crows reminds testimony, like Apple Off a tree forever, and forever ever. Dave Foofighter,, more public nothing, makes nice midnight and John Ashbery is still poet forever. Still as a dead poet, thanks for nothingness. Angels are like oh so wait.
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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