Step respectably through your sleep. There is a cure in the curve. Rattle a dream. Let us talk as the propeller churns the water and pulls down movement. Figure a lip. Ask the man of bitumen if he can heal a cow by fondling a velvet button. The aluminum sweats. The river sighs among its ensemble of rocks and argues prospects of old lumber with transcendental nails. The canvas flaps and hammers at the pink horizon and cuts the sky into folds of Byzantine undulation. Proposals of French simmer at the thermometer and although the moose is monotonous the amber is mean. I sob to consider the ravages of age and demand a pound of consciousness for the production of suds.
The Swamp Drains Trump
18 hours ago