Torrential horse
my heart is filled with wonder like a paper-mache starry sky.
The order of the lemons a identity re-covers, abandons - it does not return.
Once there was a exiled sailor who stood at parties, sitting in a quadrangle, among angels.
So the hidden pride lives on in a fruit, the blazing house of the land, the wonderful law that is hidden and cleansed.
Where hats meet lemons meet, next to and outside and the sound of juices, to reach out and relinquish in fear.
You are the disinterred god of a chinook, the power of the water.
The morning energies you in its mortal electricity.
What we say re-covers to fashion some other daughter what a inscription may teach.
A tenacious study imprisons even the moonlit slightest room in detail to which the metaphor will not be flew.
Balanced empire.
The line functions to dedicate a system to its system.
The night imposes nessescity.
Shining a fragrance of strawberry dawned in the comfortable mist.
A inscription weaves, trembles - it does not return.
Multitude of doors!
In and out of the transparent the green and the silvery
sometimes a piece of the water ignores like a smooth steel in my breath.
Appreciated and then promised in the field.
The order of the dews to discover lost saxophones and for planetariums.
Faucet was no longer above the recording threshold.
We get the sight they must lots to create to each other or perhaps nothing but shrapnel.
Perhaps they are not deceived.
Nothing but that key of atoms.
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From @allinagoodday