That day, that massed, looming day when knowledge knew what knowledge meant. A branch the size of a genuine branch greeted eyewitnesses with the speed of doubt upon the cold, grey, termagant-like waters of Loch Ness. Explain that with words sometime. Believers exist! Upon reflection--tho why spoil a good thing?--the branch became an otter of such magnificent size that astonishment rose to belligerent heights and the ghost of H P Lovecraft appeared as semblable forcefeed. All this dazzle and more surrounds the actual monster of legend, sunk in the precursorian deep of the Scottish lake. As we all know, Nessie, so called, stretches a goodly 300 yards or even some other number of swimming amplitude while scientifically existing like you when you are hungry. The world becomes a frame for saying outright, whether or not, and bagpipes truly exist. Over time and sometimes under, a monster makes your acquaintance. You should, however, just make your own. Even water of life contains exacting faction.
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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