Transport: Automatic Prose

Don't speak to a pile to the tear. Chanted the present,
the impossible elephant (some bee upon a peaceful mark)
sings. Every target tried to arrive despite chaff along 
listening. Quickly progressed at the flame glass, the paper -- 
the storm -- has focussed. The thing was sinking upon the 
collection holy as fellow. The preceding statement was fiction.
Jumping could establish us. The ring in a black fabric like 
that appetite was fear. A performance like ten coats was 
surrendering around the worse distance that some basket laughed;
we were four firm giants. The western companion was turning.
Celebrating the deity, the funny camera was expanding along 
the load wing.