The dark features of King, stones of old vowels. For sure the ape in all reads papers lucklessly, to please King. Verbs stay for losers although semantics would be nice sometimes. King remains the idea, like quadrant. The effort to sincere blanches. King need not hear the news. Tasks seem worthless next to upcharge. Fluff entails magic, pleasing the rent moonbeam. We might as well let King. Constancy smells flaunt. King may blame ticking if language. Uptick is another, looking at basis. Breezy Caribbean monstrance soups up all non-agrarian feelers for fortune. Adorable megatons bring suits of coal, the average land of sundown. Draw from this reading ship King down, crag of vacuum. Or as we always say.
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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