Watermelons cannot panic. This separates watermelon from human, and from you particularly. It can't be simpler. The vine lengthens and spreads, roaming the earth at a casual pace. The sun's churning energy charmingly begets fuel for the plant. You too, if you pay attention. Requirements of production vis-à-vis watermelon fruit redeem as impoundments of rainwater and care. We all are rich with slightly sweet juice. Life goes forth whether gainsaid or not. The watermelon seems modest but the orb knows better. It reaches in so many ways from that point in time and space. The rationale of growth fills your market eye adorably, providing the lattice of time with purpose. The scurry of little human feet transacts the day, and years beyond, with slinky and sold patterns. So many years, so many products to provide. A person rich in fruit turns to whatever gains the day. Watermelons treat their young like time enhanced by time. They survive as the idea of one. The one declares the ribboning future of being right there, included. Cartons fill up cartons in our glittery world. Don’t forget to turn to the sun.
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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