My virtual human has a Rocky Mountain headache. "Ah!" you say. The internal voice grows torpid. Our nostalgia swells. It comes from the percolator late weekend afternoons in the sway of the planet's later improvisatory period. The boxes fall as they spring in May and the neighbours complain. The dog their envoy. Here, kitty. The thing is, it's cheaper than a car, and goes further. Farther. Your thighs make an impression on my eyes. Mind brewing a gusty flam. Feigns remorse. When it does, it coheres in you.
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Sleep was a levitating experience. A weather of Sundays and their blended coherence. "All colours are shades of black" or "in every black, there's a little bit of colour." Spectrum speculators hover in a concave mirror. The blinding pallor of our insides needs relief. The boutique piqued our interest. A fantastic discovery (sung in the traditional melody): stories, people, and things.
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