A breath of cold air revitalizes the lungs. You could have sold Sandoval suffering. I sell fruit. The moon bees are suffering. Everything is in order here. Go there now. There are hundreds of mailboxes on the wall in front of you. Someone does not want this to go to purpleLand. My name is this individual, this fruit, these two right here. Was it because I was going fifty in a twenty-five? An address is a place of residence or a way we call a person. I like spending time with you, too. Our children will not know things we have known. I am seven AM and you are the birds and we are ice on the side of the road on the warmest day of winter. Goods which were damaged are now bads. See reverse for instructions. Without the proper key it is difficult to unlock a door. There is a tangle of foliage by the house. Opening the window reveals a pie, but it will take a lot more than that to enjoy it. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. It is difficult to keep my eyes open. Swallows turn swiftly. There is an empty field by the house. The tractor is too rusted and will not start. I am sold fruit, I am an albatross perched on the next page, I am pecking at the commas. My name is Sandoval. Frost creeps up the vine. I am shivering. This is the beginning. The crab forgets night on the rocks as a fox slinks closer. A plastic bag reflects light when I realize the truth---I love you for no reason. The fox lives in the dunes. I open my mouth to speak, but only an egg emerges. A photograph of a fork in a hotdog bun. Everything can be repaired. It is benedict. The aforementioned individuals waive the right to responsibility, reuse, and recycling. The green lights mean everything is okay. There is a gravel driveway by the house. An elephant will kill you. We can fix this with a little bit of lubrication and a jellybean factory. A thousand years will kill you. The chips are down and they are speaking to me in binary. Paper will kill you. Wherever you go, there you will continue to be. The grass growing through the cracks will kill you. I can't trust pencils anymore, they are all synthetic. A tree has fallen on our graves, and we are alive again until we eat these oranges. I have peeled the orange and smelled its burning center. You are free. These two right here, Officer.

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