If there are wonders of worlds unknown it wouldn’t be found in this missive. All ingenuity and innovation of tenders and obscure precarious peasants in town are forgotten. A tailor-made war machine ingenious to no purpose, but disassembling of pragmatic purpose driven people by torts in similitude to lay-flat bacon with no flavor. Style was not the first itinerary as well, as reason and intellection more likely found slung out a window in the dark grey burdensome MOCO morning clouds to dry than the vestige of its unrecognizable token. At the day of the making of the great ingenious monstrosity of marvel the crown and the crowd were all in awe, awhile the people gathered in the halls giving pittance and lamenting what they saw. They were counted with their many items that they made not similar to the machine that they stood in obeisance for.
October 28th broke darkness to a drab MOCO morning as brilliant light gives way to long pale grey cloudy skies of foreboding obstruction. What has come to pass fills the streets with unfriendly noises. Obnoxious street sounds of trucks and rude commuters in the morning melting *** of the county seat steered a drab venture for the driven. For some, the events of the day couldn’t come too soon. A sober male erected himself in an uncomfortable bed, eyes raptured into a day fore lorn by prophets of paisley drapes and trinkets once despised. Little left to vacillate upon he strikes his life for the fare he will need for the day without a meal and those owed are far greater than he can afford to pay. He deserves far worse. He makes his early drink in one thousand ways and questions the preliminaries that compulsory routine has degraded to utilitarianism as he is burdened by health of the sort the homeless are afflicted.
Sitting undisturbed, busy rifling through an ordinance of papers, the judge peered out over his bench checking occasionally to appear meticulous and still aware of off-guard court officers and clerks. It’s a wonder how influential the long satin Khaki painted walls aligned with disheveled faces of the father’s of the 9th District were in forming his disposition. It might not be obvious by the look of his sparse schlocky beard or furry eyebrows but, his portrait was as predestined as the grain on the gurney he rode in on. A paladin in white, a fury fine form, ready to leave his post modern imprint in-line with the greats. This wasn’t what he loved to do; this was what he was born for.
The tight soldier-course front-line of blue and teal is disrupted by our pocky pitched Siren dousing more among the brown of cross wood than the grain that red oak can display. Cordial banter in the echoes of the hall were far off despite the close good mornings and whimsical felicitations exchanged wittily without regard to fairness. Framed words are hard to come by in the sentence seat of the unjust. The fake philanthropic mating calls our Siren sounds before the wind are so grotesque in full sight they are only left for a sailors burial song or dirges in the dark by wearisome travelers and laborers neglecting the fear of their next day as they did the day before. Singing is a requirement in the back minds of the proud. of the proud.
a man of Bastille that Canandaigua march till Pacific with their referendum suffrages to really inhabit kingdom that welcome a pickle as this ancestry written petition must declare doom but again with fur trade
Lewis and Clark were fur traders and left with The Parting Of Ways on the Oregaon Trail making way for Mormons to settle the Southland.
Hicky has been there to bleed a knife where once it traced him in the knees like a robot he fought his colors in a foe but his registered *** offender agreed where feelings hurt inside the belt that flood was never analgesic again and let him gun down nights he walked alas with cleated shoes as future most often did ****** with just his uniform search for sovereignty and dignified marksman with courageousness that ended his justiceship in Harris County.
The eerie warmth that comes with the calm before. The unnerving shade of black that only clouds can claim. The heat that rises from tarmac on empty, open roads. The scent of petrichor from the passing of earlier rain. The first rumble starts somewhere unknown and distant. The suggestion, an omen, of the beginning of an end. The first drop of rainfall from another night of storms. The thunder waking creatures from their beds. The sounds increase slowly as time crawls and passes. The night is young and roars keep rolling in. The dark, as such, so early in the evening. The set of warm goosebumps rising over skin. The colour of the sunset behind their eyelids. The blood of Gods is soaking up their breaths. The momentary post apocalyptic sense of living. The moody skies catalyse thoughts of untimely deaths. The passing of the clouds seems dangerously fast. The growls now thick and boisterous, vehement and clear . The dust that whips past legs and arms and faces. The shelter is no barrier for the splitting of an ear. The tranquillity of standing up in air now still. The peace of opportunity to look over horizons. The aftermath of rain and wind and thunder. The silence of one mind becoming enlightened.