Simple Theories

Feeling definite? The family sloop, towards inhaling horizon. Testament strikes bandwidth along definitions of protocol. Moonbeams are reaction. You accepted the nature of a paragraph, once proclaimed as a neat four sentences. And a poem purchases elegiac tone in a favoured scheme of rhythm and rhyme. Then Led Zeppelin formed a pill, radiant as an ampersand. Rocks thrown on baby wish, pieces of the last guitar, nuclear fright.

A reward in simple testament secures a veiny process. Streets fill with the essence of people. They contain the essential outrage, lightly fortified by personal view. Did they know that Hitler survives in history books? Common knowledge, like the birth of kites in paper and string heaven. Some mansion that could be! A breeze of green requirement flushes across the field awaiting sunflower seed. In time, the gall of which, real flowers will stand, like eager evidence of the next fad. Trial and error makes the new warder. Error snips alternate routes. You are my President, Mister or Ms Whosis.

Furthermore, this Mr. John Locke, calling into question tsunami and water generally, how people can really. We have adapted to a television, at least. A syntax of possible impulse and possible impulse in reply. Identify a period of soothing, faked up with rhetorical questions. Then the long green seizing, not particular. Only this Mr. John Locke knew, with a subject such as slavery, that a chronicle stutters evenly, a rhythm for possession. Mr. John Locke could capitalize any word he wished. Such was the Age. Now we bend, just like tectonic plates. Now we go toward seashores with nervous eying. Now we read the first sentence of a paragraph, and allude to the rest. We hold demi-tasse to be self-evident, as in paraprosdokian. We steep tea in pots as a gesture toward completion. Mr. John Locke might be keen for malmsey or sack, or the refinement of tobacco as he lifts the lid of the latest book, distant skirling providing a background. Within the chambers of the book a space of average, e...

John Locke, himself, was an intricate plot schemed up by name on request. Motivated slush booms notions of government and people are crying. Crying because the earth cracks and we can only stand. Crying on top of crying because thinking is a presence. Crying on Wednesday, which always always follows Tuesday. John Locke was a delible upbeat, you were waiting. We send people elsewhere then look again, there was something. John Locke was a book impeded by jerking effort, as unsatisfactory people settle where they've been pushed. Excellence is exhausting, not contagious. This has been the preface of the World.

Penchant shines bright in the hayfield where we remember space thru agitation. We see the rain in hearty plash, scoping rumoured rivers to extent. Dreams clang on simple bells, the whirled. Definitions fill in askance. Two fairly intelligent young gentlemen, one brutal and ruthless killer get great rates on home equity lines. Someone is butchering the darlings of Society, and not even Queen Victoria is the “canary in the coal mine”. The scandal of opposition died down, and the stone-carver himself, though the town-folk continued to eye a sociologist who studies fads. The area is so dirty that merchants report the tourists are looking into their own chaotic world of million. Lawmakers in the State House have given bipartisan blessing to a few ideas for new tax exemptions this year, despite a budget shortfall that is widely brought together by a misdelivered package. And you may laugh, because you did not do your merely this and nothing more. Conventional wisdom has it that Preside...

A theater critic who was notorious for his titanically touring on a riverboat near Dandong left in a hurry. He voted eugenically. He spoke panzer divisions. He sorted his crack pipes. He loped across the veldt with his miasma. He produced nonsense in New Hampshire. He cleared the ratiocinations for further rage. He consulted the booby hatch. He broached dismal. These are the rays of pending. Rustle of documents that declare certain frames. We vote with our wand. Jostled snort of entertained opinion. Flapped a wing with willows bending to the water. The water sighs, alleviates and change. A flood closes zone of reach. Radiated stay back, colossally. We have no up where to go.

There years were, and as reference, kindly for news. A light in a window one day, clouds in a day with pastures. Shiny instruments paused like roses. We were loved by the time we took. Years of ice and sooner fell in waves before us. You remember, we were kids. We were tried and true, with roses, plummy bright roses. Lights rose from ashes, baskets in a haze. You were tired, I was worse. Plumes of water rose from battered rocks in the edge of something storm. Naturally we remained. Chords on a piano remember tasks of given. Something paused like roses as the green came loose and grand. Someone plays the drums, outright,. As far as dance conditions, and we say our words, the moment rests. Not the beat, of course, but the pasture land between. Holding hands is a careful sentence. Every sentence bounds to further stated. We were kids, and such is as we stay. Piper at dawn shocks my brain. We are kids.