R/ckets and S/ntries

the aliens say death don't have no mercy, but blue, elongated until welling, the stomach of sentence is hurt of blind, and who is to care? alien sounds. the aliens report: death is bonkers. but it is so human, a tough trail and gee, look at the amazing roofs on the houses of other people. the aliens 'land' like life or flying were impediments. the aliens think improvement because they are only too. we all change the colour of death, for it is a porridge of convulsion. no, the aliens have changed the tune, death is portable. now it is a mix of things, and we have to ride along. the hills inhale something of anything, and that becomes the mattress of the message. the 'people' who have written declarations and constitutions, toss in their chips. this is a sweet refrain and as glorious as mice, or even dandelions. a later injection will turn heads, or whatever it is atop the alien concern. a genius loses track and refrains from something that seemed 'natural'. death don't have no conjunctions, or there is irritable space between. Tibetans use a sketchpad.