"...Vis centripetae quantitas acceleratrix est ipsius mensura Velocitati proportionalis, quam dato tempore genrat..."
--D. Isaaci Newtoni.
Centipedes wobbled, hugging the ground, and they could expect only a few kindly moments, where the doctors watched to confirm their beliefs circling specific ideology, advancing the territory, dramatic, where the strength remained in proportion to that, which time generated by the flapping, dark wings in the cold, grey sky. There, also, flew the doves; a friendship between them indicated significance. The cold was hunger, around which, twirled an illusion.
spin q ( _ ) d w = < { [ poem log P ( w ) d ( y ; N , Z ) d r ] / ( d t ) } + K > .
As they wrapped themselves in a ball of tender arms, for the winter, they were spinning in two circles. Tiny animals, and the great size of the dear birds, did no loitering. Civility prevailed, and we all stayed within, an example for those floating in wind breakers, along the rain swept flinch reminding the ears of this prevalent pinch. The small book was thicker than the others, the great boulders were in pockets. The tiny eyes, the encyclopedias, were in sockets.