Simple Theories

Tremendous town, the lights are great. Spanning ages of one sentence, here, the pleasantry of dance or word. Consider yourself a paragraph, Reader. Consider the paragraph yours. Consider the years in between each word. Reader, lift an announcement in your heart that colours green to the height of trees. Reader, you live in a town, a tremendous town!

Joliet or Marquette or some subset, political cool grain trusting future in the past Norte Americano soil. France and Iroquois, Mohawk and English, or lightning hit a tree. Or all combined as English, Spanish, French, perfect suds. Lands called lands, to fill as lands. Death register time, touch of the blues. Once the massacre and torture thing while rabid Trump supporters read most of the words on panels laid open to immediate tendency to list. Thinking that that is the weird way sentence grammar, now a daze. Weird grammar speech subsume. Weird sentence sentencing subsume. Weird read of all a word, perfectly genealogical clump. Phil Lesh plays bass all around the subject.

Rhyming drone of dance seizes morning or a time. Just about a town and the still grey between words. Winter nettles or simple glitter of remembered snow on top of the arrogant head of the specious leading figure who, even now, the space between us. Racist intestinal precinct determines serious claims against any sense of the blue cradling over all. Sigh complete, fellwoing, in the practice after dawn. A pattern in space until the words make sense. Brass makes music, strings make music, whistling wood makes music. People can surmount the map of mistaking.

So deer run into the dark because dark is a champion. We see the events described by those who grow anger. The anger grows in rations, fed to pour. Something about how selfies execute electrons in election years and further remonstrances. Periods of poor light. And the deer run in the dark without sharing names, only the simplest light glint in their eyes until tomorrow. We can talk about tomorrow as a nation of force. Force is a final subject, left mostly for children and the bleak hold of the rented day. Thank you for listing.

The sentence factor by which we say things a bit builds great momentum to knowing the way down a street where sometimes. Effort along routes that mean so, last time or maybe. The sentence factor supplies everything tho nothing is a lot. The sentence structure wears only, instance and because you have to listen if not care. Drown again, just for show. Each word comes to a conclusion with a tap of meaning implied. Wind in words, as a memory cap. Trucks contain truck, dogs dog. Sentence factor endlessly.

Sometimes they swim. Sometimes the town and all the people tell of swimming. A church or two will open a door for a while and water seems real. They swim when they can, in an hour of need or wish you could tell. No one wants a bird anymore. All the fish are marvelous but the sky opens anything. Surefire rain on the same day as everything, and the people know it. They have been here, and there. Here and there each centre the people. One town is naturally another. People are like that. Today the people wonder swim. They have didactic reasons and a full wavery diction. Tunes pop up like asking more. Sometimes no word is left, only the floating thing on the water, thing. You could hold the day open, or closed. The people will try any island.

Please autumn with its cool child types. A day in rain, or placed simply in the water. The river rushes in a patter. This much we know. Like words, something addresses the moment. Words become practical markings in the reason of roads and every night. All stars quicken for the one last touch. A sentence lives association, all we are trying to say. BTW, god shares your concern.