Simple Theories

  And you say these gods have burst, current seasonal symptom, or your own personal, preferential practical god appliance manifests weight. Cooling trend in this piece of year warns of matters before matters, meanwhile matters, which don’t. Weather satisfies the unhappy note you plan to feel. Gods, or primal arrogance, your pet lizard, feature shady reasons. Merge and feel cold in normal god thing. Are you coughing a lot? Well now the catastrophe finds nurture. Some worlds just tumble, quite as the leaves decide to let go. What has chlorophyll been hiding that we jump for, all these years? Why do panza divisions happen to good people? A foot crunches snow with temerity, the good use of temerity when weather turns bleak. Try bleak as a measured response to slightly colder nights. The gods give you gods so you can be gods, with any complaint registered in the special book where your name means measured appeal. Do not enjoy foggy, cool mornings. Someday winter will turn verbs upon you an

  In the frosty climes where frore winds blow and cappuccinos seem as rarefied as human slime, the polar bear proceeds. Not upwards, like progress, your special, but into the colloquy of straitened means. Up the fullest down. The union representing polar bears contains rash exploitation, just so fastened, as you know. Niche becomes clammy and the air moist, like how all wet mentions you in dissatisfying waves. The idea of the world couldn't last: too much cooperation required. Safety nets remain for the pious sticking to the mouth of. Polar bear, that bogus container of script, looks heap plied by death don't have no mercy. You need not sing along. A master class forms righteous view, inklings just fluctuate in patterned response. Polar bear don't bother to exist but you must in overtime. You define, in the field of time. Grow larger in now time now. The present remains, to escape the future. A neighborly moan says more.

 Star One star suffices. More just makes more of nothing. You cannot live in numbers. Stars collect taxing debt by showing how little we imagine. The general rug beneath feet slips while posing as eternity. Hip entitlement to portions of the sky reflected in radio waves meant to last forever bunch up in afterthoughts. Forethought comes later. This rock and that sun occupy space while the transmigration of souls finds output in a song. Night cannot quite compete. Stern numbers wobble on the axis but, but then: afterthought as forethought. Language has been a problem all along. The assay follows cryptic lines. You feel something tight as saying so, right to the eye. Hear a jingling sound, the birth of stars. A pasture with dark canopy calls love called love. This represents an extreme view, right now.

  Potatoes swing and sway in the high speed entropy of soil, which you notably call dirt. Communal rocks of great savvy, potatoes bring the high glycemic existential problem of hunger to the carry on. The fast food that makes you slow, potatoes share need without the sanctity of pity. They grow together in darksome jollity, so you will know them well. They apply pace to every meditation. Food has never been ordinary but potatoes supply the grandest view of downtown. Foodstuff and staple, potatoes provide divots for groundlings while the builders vie for opportunity. Born to live but a little space, you receive urge from potato's promise. A world of fried splendour awaits, so long as you can open your mouth. Your mouth indeed presents the vestry to your chapel. Carbohydrates follow a plan you will never master, but you can share what you have.