The deities have expanded abruptness. We have the documentation, reports, and mythology ready to go. We approve of the shiny folk dressed in togas and light that stand for something that we expect to stand. Their vigor shows radiance and born designer sense. They make us think of greatness as a plum. The cold purple plum skin embraces a sweet fortitude and small rock. Why not dream of that. The deities enjoy their elevation. We can feel the light of their impact, wicked and hazy. When the beginning finished and the middle extends for millennia of hopeful approval, we can isolate certain fractures as tests. Perhaps our pleas will resolve into puff pastry of resonant escapade. Heavenly singers will voice native rapture as the swizzle stick circles the glass. Buoyancy flickers like charm, hazy beers are the rage. The deities have backed into something without hardly knowing.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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