Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Scrambled Tin

Power is only a heat. My imbued opinion is feathers. Scent. We forged the delectation. Simmering happens when the oscillation is suede. What thinks our orchard? Alarm the athletic violin. There is a wedge in the myth where it can be horizontal. I play the harmonica since it draws skin. The eyeball accommodates cod in action. The drawing of snake feathers claws fulfillment in the coil of fractions. I extrude parliamentary unction. Impairments make me demanding and pale. I feel a blue seclusion, darkness and sympathy as the details flap in narration. Winter, processions, apes, engagements, all pump dyes to the vat of weeping that attract snow. The wheels are splashy but somehow we will gulp the day as much as paradise, or an eyeball. Quarks in a yardstick ravenous in play. I is willow. The failure is going alright. There is a revelatory mockingbird that slices the air with songs. Weddings occur, then representation, which houses invisibility. It is congenial to experiment with wood. I use a thumb that I coordinate by empire. The blaze left a bungalow in ruin. Be hectic. An exhibition convinces us that drawing a duvetyne is a caboose disparaged by water flowing over it until it becomes a postmark. The hose is an exotic biology. Don’t punish resilience. Parse like algebra among the morals with a little show of paper, or at least a grocery slip. The moon is gelatinous. Except that we go there expecting commerce and the lobster is too warped to gnaw. I stirs paint. I lean into letters amid the sawdust as I dig for more dreams. What is principle? A cause, an age, a symptom, an emergence. Personality sparkles like wool. I have eyed life in all its various forms and discovered nothing that balloons like a pickup. There is a knob that howls and a knob that keens. Syllables blister. Opium exudes the clarity of solace. By that I mean navigation. My wool is caused by syntax. I pummel the air with a coffee in the morning on the coast of the oboe sugar. Hammer initiates the cloth of Einstein’s accordion. The increase of the sterling morning is quicker if I hide my fictions in spectacle. Dictionaries hammer their way into plywood. My fingers fuss with a collar stud. I don’t like broccoli. The difference is sparrows. There is a biology with a paradise in it that crackles and thinks about glue. We call this hawthorn. When the mink weaves through it it amplifies mulling. The delta is indispensable. A light translates the moon. Our refraction of light was thirsty, which produced an opinion and played an accordion. The tie is bald that coaxes a trumpet to spring. There is a mouth extruding from the pool. I exult in bingo. Diving is effacement. The ghost of a song jingles up and down the circumlocution coiling and uncoiling. I belong to a rivet. The planets gathered into a tube and we cried. My wandering jumps across the furrow of adhesion and makes it to the shore of a simulacrum that only exists in stupefaction. This spills into occupancy and soothes the elbows. This amid bees. This among fish. Clang clang clang. The mind is soothed by philosophy. We sip and sew a tropics of configurational pain with which to embroider the horizon. The wanderer furnished Apollinaire a meridional comb beneath a which a cavern represents the mouth. We withdrew by acting experienced. Scrambled tin is what a personality does to extrude its pathos. The truth of understanding juts from a prospect of universal reflection. The rockets flare. The voyage begins.

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