The Carpathian Mountains sound like a nice dredge of active distillation as we view our locale in retired awe. I was telling Mama of the fluorescent lighting that beguiles spelunkers in their fading dreams. I think Mopsie’s aging steward told her that. It seemed so apposite at the edge of all this. I forget which Elephant God was mentioned as we gazed at the isolate temple, we knew we were seeing a smack in the timeless pattern. Papa and Auntie resorted to glossing every remark with chortles in the family’s style. It felt so cozy and established.By the way, Lewis Carroll invented the chortle. I think it was Reginald who pulled out his diary, just to remember this moment and the warm, cawing jungle life before us. Our guide pointed out how diaphanous the trees seemed. She declaimed a poem suddenly, something bold and green and outstanding. It made the fantasy real, or as real as real ever gets. Later we sipped tea in the grandeur of iconic trees while native children scurried about the banyans singing irresponsible glee. Candescent dreams will be our delight as this day’s ramble draws to a close. The weak will always point to the soles of their shoes.
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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