The Eastern Cottonwood has triangular leaves, a booming voice, crazy catkins, and a happy smile. In the freshness of spring it pelts the local rood with cottony fluff and direct emanation. When hungry it will lazily consume vast qualities with the sun's benny care. The cottonwood rarely takes sides but involves itself in proper community. It will seem like a stick in the mud come winter's frore blast but spring brings a seasoned boost that sends the tree a-singing for months of years and years of months. Remain secular as you approach cottonwood, let your toes be roots. Hold fast sans dogma and trite, as you caprice with cottonwood, the gods will gift you a scholarship of colloquy and flowing spin.
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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