Transport: Automatic Prose

He had run. Twelve blood discussions were the critical brothers 
under ambush. Wasted around cellar on the tree of aim between 
the still darkness and the household prairie, the charms' 
dungeon (the hill-betting leg through two talents as delicate 
as ether-painted fuel) won't slide. A crag who rather repeated 
the faster chest ventured me. He has honored changing. Mars 
was the egg. A cellar-pacing opinion leaves him. After amplitude 
temporarily paced, had I broken action who shifted? The experimental 
experience whose gang didn't shift was the species. Don't 
slay us. To subject them, collect it. The owner is the former 
monument whose evening forward melts. Its drawer must stumble 
upon danger.