Rocking the toaster oven in a mad revolution. Finding spits of regret at the dead parts of living thru. Everyone talked together at a rate of five slices of toast per breakfast. Coffee could not be optional, the discord carried magic. Each guillotine smelled of advantage, with a language compelled to accept. The apparat wore green onions, especially green. Terror mocked terror then tipped into terror of terror, called terroir and easily resumed. Toast was delivered to all, as the definition of toast, as a provincial gag. Every century has its thing, burnt toast the end of magic. Provocateurs could only say they were provoked. Short pants itself were regrettable but time must be taken, taken. Imagine how toast tastes in heaven.
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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