R/ckets and S/ntries

now the aliens are like freshness, the ardent trope of laundry soap discussed in dire radicals and producing eminent lines. the aliens are frantic breaches, and fare well when savouring. we've got control problems and wet language. they've brought the test to us. we read between the lines, sure that lines exist. they've gotten into the trees and just sit there. we realize function. they've gotten tired of our nameplates, and we look askance to think so. the clock ticks, obviously taking sides. someone brings assiduity to the table, what the hell is assiduity? poets freshen in teapots, aromatic land traps begging our pardon. aliens strive for quiet places, gruesome deserts, for instance, where life's a bit desperate. they handle the plug of insistence in their own stylish way. we lose words. the aliens speed somewhere. we take that as a cue.