Something to read in the clear light. Immediate tree and partaking bird. Read indigo as dark dash. Bunting provides a thin woolen stuff, chiefly for flags and signal. As a bird however the nature becomes massive. Confederated in the moment of observation then strapped to ideal, until ideal fades at sunset. The immediate tree remains, shadowed from and equal to futurity while fancy machinations envelope slow beaming across fields in mind. But then the bird there in function of clear light. The function a rose, simply. Tidal wash up the shore for each ever of breath.
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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