Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,– Richard iii

Sentences, sentences, sentences

Strong Rose Clever Beef Free Stride

It was now almost three hours after sunrise, as she stood at my office window looking to north, the fog almost dissipated but still substantial, hung just below the ridge; she strode across the room, pulled me from my chair, dragged me to the window and pointed, “that is exactly the color of the smoke that was in the his room last night.”

As the strong wind blew out of the south, the afternoon wind, strong enough to be annoying, drying, annoying, a wind to put you on edge, Ju ran to the dugout, long powerful strides, the strides of youth at its apex, not quite the strides of the mature male yet, but still beautiful, graceful, confident.

Static electricity pricked her finger as it jumped to the door knob, sometimes she was just too clever, and on a cool January night with the Santa Ana’s blowing and wives sitting at kitchen table watching the light reflect off chef’s knife, it didn’t pay to be clever.

As song says, freedom is having nothing left to lose, but as long she was cooking dinner when he came home in the evening, he would never be free and that was a good thing, all things considered.

Neither a friend nor a lover, she lived in limbo, a hot house rose, tender, beautiful.

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