The old woman in her killed a girl who turned into a parrot while
watching July unfold. Lightning killed a man and his jaguar walking to the
store. Faint winter's dawn to one another, we were pointed out
afterwards, asked to remember the river. On her arrival in the
afternoon, she is a treasure that at once seeks the death of those she
loves, and on Thursdays, in control during a storm of
provocative language, using words she prefers along the river's bend tree
sunset cars your jungle your antenna. A girl hit by inauspicious grief,
homespun vignettes of death, got across the river as lightning killed
two others. Highly visual when displayed in the area outside. She
lingers around for birth, will break the boat beyond beginning. He
seems to have embraced blood as a weapon, as a world, as a kind of
wildlife in her vulva, in a voice peculiar to himself. Joy only to
end in a haze of pain, a garden continuing to believe in
afternoon, a mistake he's not inclined to answer for. The cervical
instincts, pilgrimage, the tactile image of the colony lighting cherry
trees on fire, treading that way one last time, dangerous language
protecting pain, a darkly fascinating world. Horse, shark, fox,
disastrous fetal membranes rupture, releasing the doctor. Adventures
in morality must find their death up the creek we lived by. Django
Reinhardt inspired gypsy swing, deliciously, he thinks. That he can
does not speak to everything she loved. Where everyday chocolate
language so much more serious flew over tiger-dolphin-jaguar thinking
of eternity, another way of representing jazz piano. Shattering, life stops at nothing to further
its own fireworks. Simultaneously measuring a snake she has
facilitated with her own obsessive love plants, an injured woman
laments how sacred life still is to her fatal beauty. Lightning his
imprisonment, his ultrasound image, a bitter understanding of the
causes born and ending in a cervical star, a scar, fluorescent
antibodies, this hidden treasure that once sought tragedy. In the
beginning, everything was fine. A weapon a hundred times more deadly
than this awkward mistake. Not willing to see it through until the
story ends that he does not want to end. He thinks he
can encompass what he must preserve, that morality finds its roots in
the vulgar, that merely opening a door is unsatisfactory. He is off to
Memphis. Fox, squirrel, river otter, brown pelican, rat, his eight
persons were treated in Africa for a while, waiting to catch his less
than direct but more passionate love. Yourself the dislodged identity
of slavery, hostile in a thin wedge of mourning. It cannot idle its
coming to an end. Little and little to the killed, he walks along the
beach, every man his man, while seeking the courage to continue. Raven
himself killed by jungle, by lightning, by a tree, by construction
workers while chopping wood. And love? A girl uses her imagination. A
war not just to swear revenge, but therein to find the lurking world
outside. Tuning a TV antenna, he hones her indescribable sorrow to an
edge, to intimacy: the language of murder, incest, perversion,
the luster of gold, not demeaning or tawdry, the murder of oppressive
sorrow. And passion opens the door on a velvety bulb of jungle, the
misery to rest beneath the waves of midday sleep or amnion sea. The
appearance of prayers to the inconsiderate multitude, the first
people, the workers, those who play in their own presentations.
Persevere to the end, when all this death is not the grief
of the she-wolf who ruptures, releasing a girl using her imagination to be
released from three medical fishing reunions. An enormity of heart, a
captivating look into refurbished half-hearted creatures shed away
suddenly, blown apart by tented statues, slowly through the
senseless murder of his sister, this hidden story that I understand
the causes, born and separate, will my interest in familiar
narrative, soul, liar from the beginning, twisted, thirty
year monsoon. An old man on a tractor cutting hay. Others,
the spotted owl, refreshing, the doctor for once not on a trip.
Reciprocal lovemouth of the Tahuayo, their powerful tobacco under a
tin roof trial, the very opportunity, the giving of beauty. He was
going to prove that power over traditionally secured waterfalls had
fallen to thoughts of resignation, both real and hysterical, the end of
joy, the challenge of being alive, jaguars and tigers, horseback
riders. It doesn't pay to be fatalistic. A card turned up, turned down, turned
over, the inhabitants practice treachery while attending a school
picnic. Our unremembering image went to her, became a boat, a wolf.
Tell the story of jazz these days to a child whereof the end in
darkness, the end we would like to concentrate upon, gives us courage
while standing in such innocent obscurity. That we want to end, and sex a jungle, love, that we can
all delight in, a velvet glove a
thousand times more deadly than these iron-fisted dreams. Of the rest you
remember little. The kind words, offhand smiles, the fond goodbyes.
The albatross that crushes out the soul. But that's all right. But that's just you.
A woman out walking is a woman walking easy. Lightning killed a ten year old girl.
You are basking in the
sunlight. Lightning killed one man.
[The text above is the result of concatenating certain subjectively selected phrases from the output of several google queries, which results were thereupon sliced & diced and seriously rearranged, then edited a bit. Not much. Well, no more than necessary. Few words were changed. A handful. OK, a couple fistfuls. However, every attempt was made to preserve the original meaning.]
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