In the far light, not the near light. Some Deities or fog, the way light bends around truth or anything like cattle. In truth the word used lays low and patient, like a mushroom. The Deities scamper with playful dated instructions, as everyone knows. Rain seizes the sky. Portents scatter at dusk without much importance. The sun fades again but will return. The respondents, full of winning slur, carry jokes in dull red hats. Their Deities, called gods or tremendous, throw patchwork into the breech. The wind blows instantly, even then.
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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