how many emergencies makes a poet? 777 stalks root godhead gets hypodermic fiend spills the spoils of a life unexamined saint walks on sutures art digs the grave.
Motor skills invoke a mental spark that stretches to include learned behavior that has raced the body through time space for some facsimile of infinity.
You of all people ought to splinter norms because you painted each of them once.
I am up for handsome, but the guess points have to be collateral.
Once upon a gastronomic brass section of an unincorporated orchestra there were ordained priests who had to be taken seriously.
As the homonyms fear losing home court advantageous mimicry, one of the outcasts is nicknamed pope.
Your daughter must be up to something: she has not blurted out one swear word in the past three moments.
Who left the mute cone on the dining room table and why?
I see my job here as a kind of self-appointed youngest child charged with making your life singular.
Until you come to the partaken portion of our cornice, there are few who would compare you to the loping, graceful mammal unclouding forestry just beyond the picture window.
Lark it up while you are middle aged, and read your Chaucer, knowing you have lived it when so many acolytes believe you merely were rehearsing early dialects in the language lab.
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