Wednesday, October 08, 2003

the strict measure confused us. dawn was filled with smoke, regular transience, an unreasoning exemplar or utility that might affect a readership. readership is down, the aliens notice. fog is up. autumn is planted in a ruckus called why, if such loose pleasaunce needs our remains then words might just exist. confusion is a modest accomplishment. red pain is searing, if that makes choice any better. the aliens are stark and driven, like a sentence from yesterday or a dodging comparison. right now, things are tired, filled to the brim and such is the vast. I thought you would want to know, each person says to another. the aliens like this part.

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