The driver turns off the highway...
Later seems like an appellation for a harbour, a touring company. Standing before the slight audience and a poem is glazed eyes. This road? Or some average. It becomes a plan or statements, like sausages in the distance named morning. Late morning, the beginning of a sentence wither smell of clouds and light. The cat sits in the mirror. A sentence wood well enough, with reliant nouns and imaginary verbs. And no birds sing. Appellation arrives later, and the driver turns off the highway. No one is left or right. Only sausages smell like the day of sausages. The road averages out to perplexity, as if a sentence could simulate a road. A more careful performance removed nose hairs. A sentence speaks on condition of not. Ordinary sound bespeaks a road. Off the highway, the driver turned, the highway turned, the highway turned off, the driver turned on. On that moment, rather than in. People certainly learned, to remember what they heard. A smell of clouds and the slanting light of morning sausages, or bread toasted to twilight. Congratulations! You have are qualified to receive (1) Amazon Gift Card of $1000! Like the ordinary driver of anything.
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