This Beefy brute, chickadee, flick of black and white, selects winter, and you maunder in the slush. Oppression is a fancy word for landscape now that you have the time to think about it. Time fills the tree with fluffy snow. An achey pine, perhaps, a Chickadee, and a stick to place in some future place. Welcome to incidence, which is nowto the point of now. The thrift of chickadee voice de-persuades the grift essence about talking your problems by metric weight, length, and easeful death of time. You haven’t reached rich enough and the moon acts stark. The chickadee of monument hops about. Compare that to the tire iron you couldn’t find, when you thought you needed something for some thing. A seed or something from a tree without occultation of yearning. Your top secret underwear needs a revue. Chickadee says so. The spirit can be so. As in so.
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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