This Is The Farm Where Candles Boil

Clumsiness is sweetened by rattling the wisecrack. Resilience was embryonic in the dream I had. The gantry forge was this parameter or inferno. The testimony propagated moon bubbles. A hirsute stepladder and bulbs that overflowed.

The wood in heartwood is longer than reticence. It is a fabric with the extent of sand. Tilted thoughts are smacked into life. Noumena swarm the book. The horizontal is sometimes gleefully housed in hardware.

This is because consciousness is stitched with rain. The blade extends grace. The stunning conclusion breaks out shouting. Nipples in salvation walk from Rome to Naples. The door’s ingredients are mirrored in the river.

Art is to experience what the oarlock is to oars. Audacity’s old hypothesis sleeps in admonition. Glasses become examples. The army moves into the opium map. Wet or adhesive the meaning of calypso dilates our tin.

A complex flower is hauled out of the garden. We serve ourselves speed and get the ceiling to sparkle. A development pumps itself into rope between the spars. Alarm whistles in steam for the coffee. Our feet pummel a pacific sidewalk.

This is the farm where candles boil. Where copperplate stirs perception. Where chiaroscuro slips through gravity’s veins and old puddles merit the play of a dachsund. Like pumps, the great octagonal truths coax our faiths to mingle and become a religion of thrills. The severity of our insults are actually sugar.

We heard that the tables are stern but flat and serviceable. Science’s phantom zippers seethe with divinity in them. During the paradigm, our truffles burst. The lost staircase spirits tumbled down the steps. The seashore climbed through the enfoldments of our clothes.

Sunlight materializes circumference. The newly built palace blazes with gold. A sparrow alights on the palette. Paper’s duty is not to the paddle but to the sonnet that replaces its letters with handsprings. Words are simulacrums until Euclid opens the door.

We step into our moccasins and the fierce new surge of being we feel is stunning. The hermitage pigments are done flapping. Expansion leaves a trail of discarded oysters. It dampens us in expanded dribble. The whole highway is fencing itself.

Demonstrate your tigers then think and interact later. The morning has no effective means to keep a secret. Fathom eyeballs are as pockets of change. Grains in suspension can rattle and multiply. Sweat grabs the skin and makes it gleam.

Goldfish arms unbend on the sandstone which burns. I had enough kisses to parody the harness. The swamp yells its examples in lines. The slide was brooding in moo drool. I put the emphasis on bounce but the hem was the first to plead its heterogeneity.

Heart salt is anything the hectic wrinkle binoculars. Jellyfish henna jarred in butane. Too blue to collect an irritation. Details unravel between your brushes. Explain the intestines. Why are incongruities always so developed that a mongrel hammer gladdens the hand of Thor and winter arrives in a harrow?

Consider parrots. Explore a sycophant. Papier collé looks chronological on muffins. It is a severity too old to pack. Fire fangs deepen the taxi.

This is a house for musk and cinnamon, not a bungalow for shouting. Wire and zippers meet certain ontological needs but we must anchor our personal sense of existence in a frame more personably oriented toward the light. Chiaroscuro branches into a texture. We sweeten our veins with adjectives. We are eager, like intellect, to swing our perspective into copper, and make it last until the chains are undone.