Simple Theories

In the a town of when you reach for a pen, white hart in standing light. This is an elevation of back from Syria with a report. The people are tunesmith, we all tell Ryan Seaacest. He is a field of amplitude, stomping on predicate. Sentences seem swans and sad. Loose marble crackpot radiations invoke Ozymandias. He was Yul Brynner, starred in The Sound and the Fury , for television popular. Meanwhile, grades for cast lines into streams yclept launching poem. People are proud, and rhyme.

Pope Praxis in the trees surround

A derivative of rapture and shore spilled across the patio. The feeling of striking fields with eagle eye, pouncing on pollen moments, singing into vascular conveyance, all for a chance encounter global unit. Towns are like soup cans We invented Syria, here in the wanting confines of American pity. We distilled petrol elegance, singing vast songs about how Canada could come to us. The patio's prevailing pylon strung words for our spore units. We would tell a tale of America as an up and coming has been, with brocades for sure. But details are for morons, righting wrongs with clamps and weevils. No one loves weevils, now or ever. They are ever portrayed. Poetry is a precinct. And as paragraphs go, so too the cat on the patio. The patio is a dark excrescence, notched with the pungency of conservative underwear. It tells the tale of place and time. This place, this time, this cookout. We plan to cook out, with eager engines ready to qualify our remarks. Some days are no days at ...

This mattress pad was made by Syria you are fighting. The thing pamphlet includes groundfire, dogs, the possibility of dinner. And you were wonderful with the way of sentient airplane going somewhere somewhere, lodestone. And then a debate which costs the taxpayers 10 into 10 divide by the mystery of 1 ounce reaching the door where sense = subtitle. Laxity as a province, coarse verbs as a sequence. Today the numerals made sense. We are scattered. Tendencies fall short of arriviste butter.

If you hate Syria because it is mean, you are a guitar twice falling to the middle of open tuning forget it. If you hate that time when the time was open to changing the monkey pile, you are red with a terrible grin. If you hate the home of Syria while you relay the tempest of doubt, you have a backseat in every bounding bus home from halfway home. Goads push empty sequence. You are a wire. The electric of naming the thing becomes a moist pattern severely. We rely on the noise of our sound cooling the airwaves of resistance. All everything is all anything.

Thru Brockton to the foundation of Apple software, and the bendy parts of our natural concern. A bend in the turn to Brockton for tea amongst liberal tame people produces a surge in patterns of liking. A jog thru Brockton while tons fall hard remains a desperate plea for attention. A test in Brockton before a call to arms insists on second nature. Arms replies. A floating rhythm of particulars accepts words that describe them. Classic investigation stops at the front door. There may be human remains, someday. A poem is part of the functioning of the network filling space. Space is the final incompatible idea, and it remains in Brockton. Apple software and the planet it makes just sighs, in space. Space is a time before sometime soon.

Words do not think anymore. They wrap around trays containing envy and shrike. They seize foments just as walking thru the door. Green sassy aspirations relax into brook standard issue winding. Roll on, virtuous energy that knows about entropy. Goldfish rule the pond.