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.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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