all the lights (down lights) point to your holy-assed posse ss ions shut the power and dangle heft in form of gender heavy rodeoic half-tones (is that your sun?)
looming plate glass holds an image of your like ness in its rather utter maze of concentration and intrinsic wafers shelve other intrisicities while
shepherds eye the foreign birds and sing in thirds record in booklets their receding learning in a huff awaiting sanskir voiced mid-harbor where the boats are in and being washed ahead of schedule
anybody noticing half anything ought to be t rained to holler out or in a pinch demand a pad of paper to convey what everyone should heed
it's bake sale time and you should be apart from home this very minuet on camera who can say what must be said there is a margin and let's not for halftix sake clutter it up with error
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