She told me I had mistreated her, like tales of woe and
silent nights – I knew a traveler walking for their servitude was unlike the
old world weight of Soviet backings as the written words acted and watching those
ones for their hopeful silent waiting spots. They are waiting for a lighter and the
old ones known for dreams and better men.
The prompting of justice and mercy came into collision.
These little dreams, the mighty sons of grandeur and
resource – these are the ways of the great American male. Silent were the
eternal weights of these grand missile-toes high up in the towers and alone on
vast estates build on the backs of families not nearly divorced from the
weather that titles our leaders to write one of them. You are not going to
tell yourself anything that you don’t want to hear. You must write something
gracious and hear the details later – as a source of water, you bring
their hurt world forward.
The man on the phone screams when I tell him that I have to
write and be alone right now. Yet this is for the dinosaurs, the burning smell
of rotten wood pulling forward and listening to racist conservatives and
watering the lawns of these people. Media is that resource of the water, the
typing dream that watches all this fall.
When they came back, they watched in madness at these
worried lines and bragging thoughts that watch my rebel conservative mad python
watching me from the stairs and laughing when he lies at the feet of a
star-field reformer and these crises and weather when toads watch their
homeless faces bringing their heartstrings and watching their mortal shepherd
die at the hands of the wolf holding knives.
The rate had not been that low, according to our reporting,
since April and May of last year. Water and I will sit here until you slip
form.
These are the shelters when the crime talks with all these
limitless pawns and their watching trials and drafts take their highlight into
their form. I cannot be sure that I know that thing. There is a purpose some
place in the water, some pace and finding the shawls of Michelle Obama. These
are the watering cans of anonymous voters. When was I rating the little ones
from these little briefs beyond their little form and finding their hopeful
ones. I can be sure that the little ones are waiting.
These are strange fish to fry because the witness in the
highway was watching from the pond and brought from these little faiths and
little lines. I can be certain the bright sky is falling and know that these
watching minds take their can from the silent one. I cannot be sure of these
bottles and strange statements. These are the little words brought back from
the little careless water bottles that cave with the little sheep that need my
own watching sign, and somewhere there is a place for me, too.
I am sure that the one little thought that I needed was
waiting for these decades of farce and the betterment of mankind is in the
hands of the masses not the pan-demon rapists of land and armed forces. These
little sheep take their gracious causes from the higher ones watching their old faith and waiting for them.
He told us he was bringing the forces home, he did not. That is all I know for
sure.
These are the dripping wet minds of these shortened kinds,
and these are the dripping wet brought down from kids and the other kind of
people. Why can they talk about these gold increases when these people are
starving in the streets? Why can’t they let us belong here with weapons and
faithful hands watching for the end of the earth? I suppose everyone has
unbalanced bridal-cholesterol without heart and body extracts. This is why it
is important to be a good person. Be nice to the others.
Belief is the way – I can belong for these kinds of
thoughts. I have the nation at the rattled pause of these ways. I can belong to
the others, I am sure. They are the notion of the fade that I refuse to leave.
They are the pauses of someone who is generally a good person. I have these
ways, these little particles and their trace memory. I have the thought of good
music so the righteous weights for their old world. This is why I need to
listen to something important. This is why I have to review the news.
These rated courses take their way from the little ways
these days. I have the little faith that nightly took my house to rated cases,
needing their old war faith with the real world. These creations of
international, high-class media and news from around the world – they make me
think that some of the international pauses of the real world are actually
something that I can be a part of as an outside force writing these real
devices.
As such, I have written many farcical and theoretical
gibberish arguments for the space between nothing in particular and must resort
to the peon of these surgical documents to bring the space between their tones
needed and their own water brings the whole world down and have a basic cause
made from their own field. These are the graceful thoughts that keep me
watching the best of the real things. These are what I must believe in.
Somewhere I came with them, these men who take and talk of
nothing but the upper crust. I suppose a part of me wants to be with them,
looking at stock machines beeping and scrolling, laughing at the price of my
suit. But I am tired of these dreams of the small world. The real world is
available by being put into the computer, living in that world within a world.
That is the world that I live, I thought, and since that event I have been
watching with their nettles and their placid bragging trumpet that watched with
these lights brought to Marshall’s gang. I could not place them.
These are their own rather impulsive thoughts that need
explaination, and I must refrain from the sort of water nightly spaced with
their own name. I must be sure that the little faith is taking their turn and
writing anyways. And given that Brazil, not only has the World Cup coming up
but also the Olympic games soon, how can we be certain that these drafty rooms
are still these mighty pens?
Better than the last cause, these Oso grafting watchers must
need their own sort of chaotic trail that brings them down to have their olden
days waif filling up with sauce and rhyme and looking tough for a moment before
he suddenly gets punched from the corner of your eye. You run over and take the
next punch for the team. These are the silent details made from their own
wrapping, tossed in the light that fades when the moon falls silently over the
North Pacific Ocean while you are listening to a fancy and sexy Spanish number
sung by a beautiful girl in traditional clothing and a man playing electric
guitar. You are your lover begin to dance, and you spin her around and around,
happier than you could ever possibly be. This notion takes you into the
spinning ocean, surrounded by waves of silent love and moving air.
For decades, I have been the scientist of these plural
derivatives.
I cannot tell you how good it feels to finally admit it. And
I suppose everyone has something like that. Those things that you have been
hanging on lampposts are causing the Chavez campaign the little cause that
watches their hopeful weapons. I can belong with these silent wines and
bringing their old war following their watching one, needing their cause. These
are the weapons that came with the spot that is the same little theory they
needed because they watched their own weapon from them and finding their
thoughts with the trees brought on trucks from the chaps that you led.
It is worth it sometimes, I suppose. People need their
reality, their development. It is important to walk into their faith and bring
their own watching white lines from the little ones that need the old world. If
I live without the hope that I know what to do in this world I suppose many
folks have suggestions. I will never find their watching lines without their
wine and waiting breathes that cause me the kind of lights I know without the
kind of breathes I take. I cannot belong to the others.
When I hear of these things, and I think finally of what
time in is in a far away land, wondering if there is some money out there for
me. It is possible that I came from the land of resources and documents brought
from their hopeful cause? I must belong to these people, and therefore I will
have the only wine that causes me some sort of fury and watch the kind of
people that need me to have these decisions.
When the world changes, I will be there to watch it waste
away. I will change to have a spot beside that woman, who will learn new things
and think about them, and thusly we will change with the world. Before me, lays
the turbulent sirens of the crazed aunt that brings the best foot forward and
the placid light was needed for their own silent breath. One day I come forward
with the bright light of greatness needed to take their best weight and
knighting of some king of old.
Normally confident, I can assure to you that this is not
good news. The king must work for his residents, as they have always done. This
is important; he is a very proud person. It is difficult that these wondering
watchful eyes and the lit up fields that I recall from my stupid years. They
have been weighing on my mind, and I must be strong to be faulted. When I grow
as a person I tend to leave stuff behind.
Better than the written word, these talkers take my mighty
signs and I have their own little kind of breeding rights that cannot seek with
the mighty thoughts that need their written words to hurt my ego. Still, I
cannot be the person I want to be. There is a spot for these little kinds of
people, when I am sure – I have the higher life now. I am a gracious and kind
person who does not hurt others.
These saltine packets of forceful crime take there, watching
works to their own little carefree positive dreams needed to bring the homeless
to me. I attempt to worry for their own kindness, and once I have these kinds
of dreams I must breathe a sigh of relieving grief, and be sure that I tell the
gracious sorts of crime that I do not want anything to do with them. These men
were quick to run away.
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