Pessure Dated Commodity

Writing about getting away, tho that means no escape at all. There's my dilemma, choice of two. I write a few dogged worm holes, pleasing nothing for the moment. The clouds showed marvelous below my feet, then, when I could look there. Now, of course, so much flies above. Who saw this monster growing in human time first? We name that person forgotten. Forgotten was some early impulse, before an Englishman took shape. Now English cultural baggage constitutes a resolution. Fine, be that way. Gasp in the thin air as humanity pulls. I write of the memory, which has been glossed and fairly lost and found. Only mine tells, more or less. I like to use a phrase, covering some function, until I remember the story inside the pattern. Yeti, at this time, tours shiny cities in North America. Yeti needn't think any more, the questions given are pliant. What should I do? A knock on the rough Kathmandu door, frankly. It is Excellent English, that story from yore. Did I say yore in my enthusiasm? Call that comprising, but don't thank me. I went to the big mountain, inventing the you know how it is. I came from the biggest damn, and it wants a future filled with more. More goes exasperating toward the crunchy sound, perfectly rendered as a paragraph that doesn't get quite. Gettysburg pumps me up, such a graphic. And moral give and take associated, bluster knothole tribunal mud. Don't really lose all, children, on your personal mountain. Try to buy more time... Paris Hilton then, suddenly, popped the answer, not the question. Excellent English is the new present, tells me exactly of several angles, all called Yeti. Do you think I could fail to read People magazine now, when Tom Cruise inches off the measurement? Paris Hilton has not even insisted on dying yet. I guess I'm implicated, film of the year.