R/ckets and S/ntries

your idea, fresh from clumps of stars. those stars on an open night, produced rain in interims fit over the rumour close to call: they're a language in your side and front, moving to the deliberate cut across the beachhead, waiting in the go there while the travel field is offer close. did you sing out phrases in classic union crunch, got to make a light the way? maybe so, and maybe grim as England. you did good in several structures, poster children running wild to know the more and less of that whole thing. you were up in arms, and down in them too. dunce cap correction molds over the sway to mean. did you care an awful field of roses? did you really land in graceful sand, adjusted for the present tense? you were poetry time a lot of feeling. inside the New York minute suite, weren't you allowing rare to rarer? that's the trumpet pest again, landing in the marsh. the marsh is home again, for you, for me, for all the alien concerns. pose another prob tonight, when strata need a date.