Sunday 25 January 2009

fragmen.teary literature?

"Let her alone," Mr. Levy said. "Look, she's trying to sleep."
"Let her alone?" Mrs. Levy propped up Miss Trixie on the yellow nylon couch.
"Do you realize,Gus, that this is the tragedy of this poor woman's life. She's always been alone. She needs someone. She needs love."

Unfettered by the clone,Evan Levy bled. Book,shows flying sue steep.
Writ on a throne? Mr.Levy popped up his tricky phone the fellow lion crouch.
dew youthed real eyes fuss fat missed missle rhapsody office store showman strife. sheathed saw flays to the bone. sheen eats salt bone. ski knead dulls dove.

He won the battle for his grandfather, staring at the ironic clone, the Imperial Of Cultural Rules had created of him, Evan Levy.
Gripping his nose phone,he whistled the improper tone of art ages and it reverberated saying," I will get to the source of this with eyes of knives, and find the funding you so weakly disguised."
His first mandate was the destruction of art books. All to be thrown from Stone Mountain's suiced leap side, so named by the sad insane sue trixie from 2060. But from his Atlantis Throne, he came down to confront his robot grandfather. He was nothing more than a backwards clock with feet.
His Leo heart crest and tireless childlike followers scowered for the numbers, the details,using this information to bombard the fragile veil,the reason for no investment.
They, the man that is they, gave up the ghost,peeled back the last layer, let down the paperwork drone. exposed and left a pile of gold alone, little emblazened creative kittens nurturing away at milk and momma's million miles wide home.
It was peacefully an outdoor field,a downhill breeze,with dish cold wings serving us art from now on.

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