Hip-deep in sand, witches sweep the skies for radiation, emblematic of a few carloads of coal gas. Kleptomaniacs eat swollen ears of candied armatures, handing out trampoline instructions to the past. Unclear yearnings lend a handsome nightingale to bold neutron traders, asking for Doric stopwatches in return. All your menial traps hoot at futile beanings, plastering frenetic pennants on crowded anonymity. The inns and oblong overlooks of tethered towns please urbane pollsters, relieving ivy warriors of their rounded boots. Edged in dotted twine, dates drop off their skillet lines without corking, heaving locked odors into camshaft flues, regardless of the banal backstrap’s burning aisles. Whooping it up, relaxed witnesses split kazoo tarps with measured capstone crops, shedding butane sawfish for a crescent of hope. Racked iguanas crane their wizened necks to pine for crepe horizons, bringing in the popping of neoprene kids. Footfalls and belches attract tent-folding beauties, who ease a scrape of soul food through embodied grooms. Lost machines graze idly into the noonday clouds, pumping mineral water down piped organics. Framed deities slink and topple in ordered heaps, splashing faucet news into distant rugs, echoed through the greening trees. Yogurt regrets overexplaining tearful commercials, surprising even the postal Kleenex, ushering in an avalanche of wax paper. Starry-eyed mobiles sway imperceptibly, gazing at a flowering midday swoon, balking in the entire fishing team.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
A Crescent of Hope
by John Pursch
Hip-deep in sand, witches sweep the skies for radiation, emblematic of a few carloads of coal gas. Kleptomaniacs eat swollen ears of candied armatures, handing out trampoline instructions to the past. Unclear yearnings lend a handsome nightingale to bold neutron traders, asking for Doric stopwatches in return. All your menial traps hoot at futile beanings, plastering frenetic pennants on crowded anonymity. The inns and oblong overlooks of tethered towns please urbane pollsters, relieving ivy warriors of their rounded boots. Edged in dotted twine, dates drop off their skillet lines without corking, heaving locked odors into camshaft flues, regardless of the banal backstrap’s burning aisles. Whooping it up, relaxed witnesses split kazoo tarps with measured capstone crops, shedding butane sawfish for a crescent of hope. Racked iguanas crane their wizened necks to pine for crepe horizons, bringing in the popping of neoprene kids. Footfalls and belches attract tent-folding beauties, who ease a scrape of soul food through embodied grooms. Lost machines graze idly into the noonday clouds, pumping mineral water down piped organics. Framed deities slink and topple in ordered heaps, splashing faucet news into distant rugs, echoed through the greening trees. Yogurt regrets overexplaining tearful commercials, surprising even the postal Kleenex, ushering in an avalanche of wax paper. Starry-eyed mobiles sway imperceptibly, gazing at a flowering midday swoon, balking in the entire fishing team.
Hip-deep in sand, witches sweep the skies for radiation, emblematic of a few carloads of coal gas. Kleptomaniacs eat swollen ears of candied armatures, handing out trampoline instructions to the past. Unclear yearnings lend a handsome nightingale to bold neutron traders, asking for Doric stopwatches in return. All your menial traps hoot at futile beanings, plastering frenetic pennants on crowded anonymity. The inns and oblong overlooks of tethered towns please urbane pollsters, relieving ivy warriors of their rounded boots. Edged in dotted twine, dates drop off their skillet lines without corking, heaving locked odors into camshaft flues, regardless of the banal backstrap’s burning aisles. Whooping it up, relaxed witnesses split kazoo tarps with measured capstone crops, shedding butane sawfish for a crescent of hope. Racked iguanas crane their wizened necks to pine for crepe horizons, bringing in the popping of neoprene kids. Footfalls and belches attract tent-folding beauties, who ease a scrape of soul food through embodied grooms. Lost machines graze idly into the noonday clouds, pumping mineral water down piped organics. Framed deities slink and topple in ordered heaps, splashing faucet news into distant rugs, echoed through the greening trees. Yogurt regrets overexplaining tearful commercials, surprising even the postal Kleenex, ushering in an avalanche of wax paper. Starry-eyed mobiles sway imperceptibly, gazing at a flowering midday swoon, balking in the entire fishing team.
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