And the tentacles reached neurasthenic levels of projection as the question was asked. Darksome skies compounded the adventure of looking here. Rains smeared bellicose rejection patterns with pluperfect condiments of rationale. Yet again, the tentacles stretched to the square root of oblivion, tho upon a cozy framework, and tightness reigned. The urgent maw cornered a new meaning, which extended the tentacles further. A scream as of a multiplied siren lurks in the cream puff of the attendant officer. Shots were shot, as logic would expect. Heroism proves not always the same moose. People are involved. The tentacles stretch cancellation to its almost logical extreme. The maw could be industry, or just facts, or a prevalent aroma. Heroes the size of storks pour in. *In what?* the reader asks. The tentacles have no time for ambuscade, but industry remains. The children eyes open to relent and the lack thereof. People are involved but involvement cannot be a plan. Rain dazzles in the offing, but the offing refuses outright to remain. Here, then, the tentacles, as the story goes. Going includes no options.
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.
Comments