Building small documentary pyramids to bide time while time, in a word, spins. The class of limestone, the advantage of local, the geometry of lyric. Pyramidal sands, pyramidal wind of all the only gods, the best, till hopped up pyramid for a plastered grandee future. Join now in the inevitable windblown sand and key of desolation. Logocentric crisis mode avast at serial town, grown to city weight on the bluff features of rocklike Earth. Pyramid holds the space of time for this gathering. Include graves and legacy, statues and stick, see the far end of forever, envision kinetic daisy. Hear then the land scar records over the course of time, inundations great and small. Granaries invest for the dry time, round about this imagined time again.
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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