Simple Theories

The process is simple: relax in your gorilla suit. Every piece of a story welcomes a new nature. This is a positive message, like maple syrup in spring. Those people in their rage bring argument and cholesterol. It’s like Republicans can’t dance. They just wilt efflorescence like it was going out of style. Which it is. The trees seem vague, like downtown Detroit. So many answers to so few questions; we just mock an unsatisfied maple tree. Blue stories are red everyday. These are not our people, this is not our town. Capitalization begins with everything and everything’s in the way.

Where the wind went was some time ago. Leaves of a vital purpose turn browner maunder. Rains rush in tactics of space adventure. A wind across a parking lot makes discoveries and ramps. The sky boldly fills. Today the ether of planning rumbles with reports of rain. The system collects its moments, as do people. We are alive in our placing, the neural venture, the stutter of space. Endlessness makes just one part of time. Other parts adjust the town. Snow will be a sentiment. Daffodils even now are dedicated. This flurry of reports is the definition of exact. They stay intact for the bracing wind and choose rain in the streets. Autumn rises exactly in time, for the time that it takes. The skies are not cloudy all day.

Struck banjo time for day in light. An angel called, the light thru tree. Every moment a hum inside. Turn the colour green the way you ought to be. Square field called night fits time to stories, old and new again. Telling the edge of things the core of things. Confuse the dragon or the wretch.

It’s a start, one night called autumn. One moment called, one after moment sent night. Somewhere in between, some time in the settling of each word and other words. The autumn in the current sky reveals dark open field or orange sentence leaves. Feels great and fine, even after the sun finds clouds. Night varies day and we have to adjust. Even the trees know, and their words are colour. All leaves add colour to colour, reclining in colour. Soundly beating heart, or no longer. This is just the time.

Comatose regions fit us with plenty. She died on a day called Saturday. Not making this up. A perfect sentence tells us something while the clouds. In an effort and surprising, the gleam when death says word is magnificent. An approach, while we are bodies, and the trying means love. A stanza is a break in the action. Action is change. The next moment, or the sentence that says so. The previous three moments were attached to the one 42 nd back. Do you understand time too? A sentence is a complete thought, completed on or in the field. Time is a magnet or fence, it could also be a tree. We are people, mostly, and we enjoy our tree.

The South Pole , land of peach and shaving cream. The North Pole , fun sunless bung. The creators of misery arrive, improving angst with measures of norm. This is the cleric’s realm, the idealist base, the ringing bell. In season as the forces of good and evil stop to talk, boiling made frozen heart. Poetry becomes a synonym for something else. Metaphor breaches exactly right Republican, downwind the Democrat doubt. Free range chickens. Inasperate the fertile words of snow and structure, kinds of population, miniseries to see. Ocular profile of the silly season behaves badly. Western culture has long positioned itself as distinct from Antony Gormley. It's time to rethink the purpose of misunderstood.

Republicans, and plants, have feelings. Rocks, estrogen, testosterone, have feelings. Republicans have a sort of feeling. Tides feel tides as tides. Republicans dash about with the words for feeling. Democrats are cracks in the mantle but feel the name of the mantle. Republicans have ontological motivation, with feeling. Chris was words saying words, brief bright. No Demo-Republicans were easy to hear.