The state is a slow promise.
A call, the wording disambiguates,
home seems in reach. Over and above
any sure-fire guest appearance, the list
we've held to, palms ever at the ready.
The feet, my face, a likable pronoun,
all spin together within a furious, random
shell. What surprise? Only seven nouns
cause a stir. The fourth one you've heard.
The rest will meet a common end. It or you
will rapidly seize the seat of powder.
Fallout holds a verge, a familiar name
folds: wanton, scurrilous and dim
(not dead in this reading).
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If we had asked you to sell us your last segment, no blame would be cast. The pairs we've since forgotten, now a gift beneath a sinking, fallow smerle. But, what a ring! The tradecraft resumé has enabled the emergency plan at my feet a place in the everchanging forecast of wind in takes.
Since we've mounted a solid nudity process, the only one to escape is likely a Baptist, if not toast. We can/cannot promise one pale fellow will meet your plane with/without a scandalizing mood disorder. But that's all a wafer in a flood.
What counts now is riding, the timing of rides and the risks of time writ large. A whole season, in fact. The tale you will tell may negate an ever paler ridership crisis format. It will not be my place to defend your actions, but I may be forced, within the limits of my allergies, to depend on wind as my source of choice. Did you feel that? I think we bent. Not by dint of cherce, but, a fierce cleanness of will is mere dross to the droopy. A forgotten condition is what's left, nowhere near stolen.
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