This vine, the glory of Vinland--if we could just find Vinland to jar our mixed feelings. Sure, the simple fleshy fruit that usually has many seeds is a berry. Not a drupe that requires one seed to fulfill definition. Grape explains fecundity by the roadside. Emboldened, vines extend reach, like a poem in the great book and ears attuned to how words remain invented or inverted. Grapes define seasonal with the smell of autumn. Bold sun investment and an urge to crawl about, the grape presents agile opportunity. Your kudzu extremism fosters that political gallop of the programmatic opine. Make americas mean something. We drown there. Please by compelling thought in sun not the dimming dimming force feed. Grape parties on in sinecure and homegrown melody, thanks. Thanks that you smell fruition. You could do worse.
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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