Simple Theories

land grants, fog on the top, the day of that. A rich wind of only words, cool night, grateful deed sow windy.

When leaping into the word, and the file limit, trees have been winter for 78 days. The personal effect of doubt reflects in topic sentences. The benches clear. Africa states its need to be clear. It is an it, from towns of conscious. But we, the tone of free taken, speak a name and ownering. The time of words has escaped. We have a penchant and resistor. Class is a clambake or better still. Better still is the announcement from last night. Children darken. Children who were only possible, were substituted, were sent the mass of explanations. That is the Africa that we grew, right here. You are talking it now with me. The word, then, that classic phase of existence, still seems much. This is the sailor’s life, explained in drowning.

Sometimes the stand there in the face of bending while the actual season simpers offering stab wound or panic but the wheel seizes an ivory leaf, the green of escape or town where rivers or just a package from when the time was right. Later eves, or eaves, and the special sane brushes the talk show off simple margin, you are reading people. People are the marvel when it becomes time, but time is an extra word, too much, something gets lost. Translation was a door last year.

Those days become, the rock exists. Garden basks in book. The eminence of colour shows bullion season, littoral calling, we free hold. What tempo culls the structure of obedience to dead past? Dying is a name for lack of effort, or just a blink. Pity creates a lack of maximum when we need a thunder clap and clouds that file for rain. Words make no sense, the sense lives as it will. Government nest piles on, in the terms of horde, or orderly explanation in a nation of nothing. You say the ledge, the ledge owns nothing. Nothing is the greatest price.

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.