Yes, a dream of big teeth in house-sized anxiety space. A time in the misty prevailing when cool monster without simpering mellow feathering determined the impact of physical luscious fear. The specimen creates the maximal thunder king sound with ultra lizard shadows that meet you at political nervy night. Did Rex trundle on the outpost land like human antipathy, or race earth-low with lizard slink into the mindless ultimatum of acme predation. It’s all great. There were signs of presidents, rooted in televised commerce, who on two feet, almost, stood. You can settle this with the flash of your vote. A cannonade of hind legs matched with adjudicated forelegs: see the matchstick to irrelevant weakness. The space between your charming monster America and the bleeding standard churn smells like prey.
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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