If What he said was True, then then I don’t want to be right
I heard the color of shoe. It sang so unsightly like cranberries on the mountain pool, deep within the pancreas of John’s ottoman. The birds kissed the rhythm that my car could not phantom of the opera.
The song drove all the while in the fields of the doves. They sprang down to inner toilet, thrust deep into the clock, wasting what little change I had left.
Pocket lint, I rang.
Lint pocket, he flew.
Yes, truly it was sublime.
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