Pines stand in this world as tall as a lightning strike, usually beneath a dubious sky. They are odiferous and sticky, and much given to sough and birr. The Pine, a tree when it gets to that, regards whimsy with whimsy, and so should you. Barred from distant travel, Pines grab hard the land. Their best trick is the pinecone, also called strobilus for the fun of it. These planetary dainties fall into the category of gymnosperms and can only be released from that name when used decoratively. The Pine is not just a conifer, it is an evergreen, which certainly gives you plenty to think about. Long verdant winters tell the tale for the pine. Its plucky needles perform photosynthesis as easy as kiss my hand. Staunch Pines stand strong thru the seasons, abiding like a plainsong. You would do well to follow their lead.
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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