Affiliate Marketing Secrets

– Pro.
When I tell you, you will need to remember. It makes things easier for us that way. Now, it’s me and she and I and her and him and he and they and us. That’s it. That’s the story. At its simplest and most distilled state; packed and compressed. I’ve waved my hand in the clouded room; pushed away the smoke and steam, and have given you the one clear glimpse that you need. There it is, can’t you see it? The conclusion and the coup de grace, the finale and the resolution; sitting and waiting just right here for you. It’s me and she and I and her and him and he and they and us. So now that we’ve begun with the ending, let’s end with the beginning.
Feel it and let the hairs prickle up against the skin.
– 1
Feel it and let the hairs prickle up against the skin. It’s that cold: that chill that comes with a late autumn. With the sweeping and uneven winds that rattle at the trees and grab hold of the branches and leaves. It’s that molded smell, that composted earth and soiled air; the one that crackles and fizzles, sinks, and weighs down the tongue. Taste it. The untouched ground of a thousand years, the unchanging and melancholy of fields and valleys in rural New York; intruded on, defecated by, Hidden Hills. By the white walled, white speckled, white cuttings of its buildings, grounds, and people. This is the hospital. This is the prison. This is the Hell, that houses patient #91912844.
And the gilded light of an early morning contrasted the stark bite of the air. The resonance of snapping leaves; the wisps and curtails of cigarette smoke; the mild, almost hushed, chattering of teeth all did well to fit this morning niche. Her name was Dianus Romme. Her pace was slow and simple: dedicated but not purposeful.
These were her rounds; her routine. These were her grounds; her path. And her fingers trembled as she brought the cigarette to her mouth. With forced deliberation, she inhaled and masked her face with sheets of smoke. Beyond her, through a mesh of crossed wire, was the open and waving grass; the unrestricted and uncontained world. Delicately, she laced her fingers over the links; and pressed her palms to the fence. Her head rested against the post and she felt the soothing touch of metal. Her sighs fogged the air and, in a moment of weakness, closed her eyes and remembered.

– Pro.
When I tell you, you will need to remember. It makes things easier for us that way. Now, it’s me and she and I and her and him and he and they and us. That’s it. That’s the story. At its simplest and most distilled state; packed and compressed. I’ve waved my hand in the clouded room; pushed away the smoke and steam, and have given you the one clear glimpse that you need. There it is, can’t you see it? The conclusion and the coup de grace, the finale and the resolution; sitting and waiting just right here for you. It’s me and she and I and her and him and he and they and us. So now that we’ve begun with the ending, let’s end with the beginning.
Feel it and let the hairs prickle up against the skin.
– 1
Feel it and let the hairs prickle up against the skin. It’s that cold: that chill that comes with a late autumn. With the sweeping and uneven winds that rattle at the trees and grab hold of the branches and leaves. It’s that molded smell, that composted earth and soiled air; the one that crackles and fizzles, sinks, and weighs down the tongue. Taste it. The untouched ground of a thousand years, the unchanging and melancholy of fields and valleys in rural New York; intruded on, defecated by, Hidden Hills. By the white walled, white speckled, white cuttings of its buildings, grounds, and people. This is the hospital. This is the prison. This is the Hell, that houses patient #91912844.
And the gilded light of an early morning contrasted the stark bite of the air. The resonance of snapping leaves; the wisps and curtails of cigarette smoke; the mild, almost hushed, chattering of teeth all did well to fit this morning niche. Her name was Dianus Romme. Her pace was slow and simple: dedicated but not purposeful.
These were her rounds; her routine. These were her grounds; her path. And her fingers trembled as she brought the cigarette to her mouth. With forced deliberation, she inhaled and masked her face with sheets of smoke. Beyond her, through a mesh of crossed wire, was the open and waving grass; the unrestricted and uncontained world. Delicately, she laced her fingers over the links; and pressed her palms to the fence. Her head rested against the post and she felt the soothing touch of metal. Her sighs fogged the air and, in a moment of weakness, closed her eyes and remembered.