The willow escapes from the ordinary with wet feet. Churlishness aside it favors us with salicylic acid, the bane of your terrible, unconscionable headache. The willow goes beyond mere solicitude by drooping close to river surface and sighing. Willows bear their young in the slinky strands of their branches. Their lullabies prove comforting like a piano floating in the breeze. The willow can pronounce many large words but life is not a game. Life is a motivation to live while willow stands at river edge and watches canoe disappear. Politically, willows bend because the winds of change and so on. Like most people, there's no stopping a willow from drooping. In the murky sentence of summer the willow goes nowhere, being rooted in moment. Willows vote pro-union because reasons always matter. Matter itself does not. This cuts close to the willow of willow, a timeless retort to timelessness where vacations seem possible and busy carpenters cast their hammers skyward.
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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