Simple Theories

The sentence in Christmas became an exacting tempo, but we can slur the words. A patient interest fills the pasture where the cows renew their flesh for us. We are animals, concerned with tickets to heaven. We need a few words and at least one complete sentence. That just measures balance for the human express. If the sentence says Christmas is victory, then well will the snow fly. It will cover. It will win. No victory is human. We are gestures of the fact, then of the sentence speaking of the fact. The fact does not include the central jolly elf, who is registered in far too many waning victories. Neither can a single fact bear the truckle of reminding heaven of our hell. We have to shovel walkways with whimsy, if the bleak coal day that tonight makes clear continues in reference to how our heart feels. We make tired trails to pant suits, leisure suits, something something suits of premium meet our cause. Folk sing of something. The thing is immaterial, but singing says s...

The easy tree eventually travels to swan. The meantime of swan pours for water's reserve. Champions swill the peso. In these days of no days, the great microphone. It cannot repair aqueducts, this same day delivery. Portals open. A nervy abundance requires a formed foundation. Meaning seeps in. You cannot stay in the garage.

Ten words with a strong violation of practical sense render now possible old teeming when the sentence goes loosened goose. A flock of even more than marvel flips the sky for a profile dalliance. A flock of words, counting to ten, and then a sentence makes a parade. We write poems in our dreams. Our dreams read poems and a flock. As words soon prepare more words, and a poem is only when a crow could stop action, then it has to be Christmas, just to make sense of winter. Now the practice renders a standard and picture. We have poems to bring to neighbours. We sit by the door.

Stop being Deepak Chopra, Oprah Winfrey, and cope with this blog full of suppressed feelings and semi motivational Pseudoclassical Tragifarce in a Bastard French Tradition. I'm a huge Yankees fan living in Boston.

Words are possible and a doctor when you are a rooster or hen. The density of oblivion vitalizes a common time. Your coworkers cluck because empathy means elasticity, where verbs deploy and nouns stop time. When you are ready, a violet something produces something else. Else is like the years you were tomorrow. When today branches into commodious vial, you can say you had a day. You had words and words had you. A trifle in penitence stops a balm. We cannot keep the last word, it went to something else. Now as a risk employs deception and refund, we stick to enclosure. Here is what I mean, patented and registered. A poem goes it alone, going it absolutely and so. When you are poem or writing it you have a complete time of the sentence saying. Go forth and probable realm like all sighs and stepping.

Early on we had a Thanksgiving with a comet just outside. Would the comet be torn to shreds within the magnitude of the Sun's gravitational force or perspective on other nearby celestial bodies? Could this be a problem when we claim today as a day of thanksgiving? Time for giving thanks is November 28. Quickly fix common problems for faster performance on this day when thanks is giving.

Even before the words of getting, the spring hit of sun in sentence relaxes. A line of poetry waits for breath. We expect. A poem expects words. Words plan on the. The is microcosm of direction. Utility breeds utility. A sentence can go four feet or more. Signage is an extra hand. Poets describe extra hands. Words are parcels. I want to be a lark , says the program.