The blue part of green sorts fine particles from life, suns, seasons, songs. Yellow excruciates, which is old as hat. The old hat typically fields black, brown, or grey, the basis of eyes. Few listen, meaning becomes crowded. Green makes sound of vitality outspend practice. Economy proves justice machine-made pronto. You may have feelings, moody singularities. You'll notice adjustments to make. What we keep in the green light tomorrow will bear sanctions and bitter tribunals. In the wake of everlasting disappointment a religion of brown errors occludes the determination of weeds. Belief is that simple and crowning. Letters poise for perfect words while Analgesic pathways line with numbness. The transaction that occurs harbors frets yet sunlight falls to the green still leaf. Certain words make uncertain ones.
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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