The Sun is popular in our society. And for good reason. Using its nuclear power, it lights up half the world. The other half gets theirs too, a fact that could be prioritized as a sort of fulcrum for living amidst so many lively processes. This creates a dialectic between dark and light. In both light and dark you can posit ideas in the insistence of which you can live. This might sound complicated but only because you complicate. Compassion should be the simplest word to understand. Remember, the sun doesn't have to be there. A bunch of actions occurred randomly--over and under time--and, lo, the sun appeared, and other things, even life on earth. Not just the Bible says so. Very serious people understand that sunlight hits those reactors in green plants and that produces the gumption that plants thrive on. In that, you resemble a plant. Take that as just one example. Cycles of growth and surcease spin in the hollows of this life that defines the life of living. Philosophers and people think about this stuff constantly, even without thinking at all. It may seem like a narrow road you trod but you can learn to bear and fill the beams of love. And then you transform into the wide and inclusive expanse. It is the light sun shared. You can say thank you, it would not hurt.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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