The golden sun covers expanse with the bread of Words. Fierce targets of importance transmit radical ideas, called tower. Yes, tower remains a function of non-tower, the vying plea. The view in each word glows, because the sun is strong. The sun spends the night, and whispers human greatness. Integrity marches toward weirdness, just as dawn opens the way for morning. The sun makes morning by adding birds and brief alders. Quiet makes quiet quake, with ears in the moist trees. Pictures all turn tribal and the one word of today.
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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