Some kind of story

She was the original protagonist an Aunty Gen minus the gin. The accesorized 360 degree view helped the triumvarite of dreamscapers find the needed character mold. A veritable impression left by a 542 year old blood sausage. The hampstead heath was her domain of new and old. Thee weesome bucks around the mark were solidly and tekronialky dialed. Filling the abject would be no diminishment from the story a progression only watted by landscape ornithos. Pathetic the mid-tale soused and front it foretold an old oafish character the iamb not particular though threaded. The cues a tussel but nor a ruse not a rebus sticking to the ends the character pronated like a yew on fire in the autumn sunset of a Mt. Gambier Easter. Long the wind.
She edited the protaganist with a bunsen burner carefully avoiding tearing into a 1931 timeline. Violation is worse than burnt rice of course and there was heaps of reclamation still to do. Recalling the clams was a locket of trysts and yes, HE knew it and carbunkled the a prioristic flange of a well-fleshed out theme supported by a treasure hunt of iffy plot twists.

Her plot master was a robot. The specific in light of the generic was an old maxim but the klaxon was loudly applied in meta to the writing. As an example the book written after the review. Sort of an on-purpose accidental method of doing deconstructive writing. Meta stuff indeed with almost limitless material. 

When adding dimension to characters, color could be used but thinking about new designs for a workspace may be derivative as is all of this. Characters aren’t family any more than Twitter is a bluebird or a brand of bus Navistar never made.

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