So the tree frogs gather up there in the trees, logically and confirmingly. God—you know, as in God—who has been known to flood the earth according to several reliable traditions, sends a good dousing, perhaps as a reminder. Untold tree frogs find themselves washed from the tree and maybe drowned or otherwise screwed. Well, what about that? No telling, the world is too much with us. Tree frogs don't represent a single species. They just happen to choose an arboreal habitat, much like you might choose to live in the boonies. Perched in trees on summer nights, the male chorus sings the frog version of sinuous mating call or whatever subtle rapture, unless swept away by the God of Downpour's parlour trick. It's all life in the frog lane, which indeed is your lane as too. Might as well go out singing, in the springtime minute.
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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