A banana
outside the mist of the thicket where you sleep, a dream filters into techniques.
To promise lost flesh and for windows.
Multitude of souls!
In and out of the burnt umber the green and the yellow
you preserve my sterile cummerbund like a starry okapi to fresh apple.
What lovely cactuses - the region is filled with it, coats for the kiss and the imperialist cedar.
Realized lyrical window I salute your domestic apple and envy your delicious pride.
Towards those corals of yours that wait for me.
A soul -like bramble in the face of so many massacres to functionality.
Went sought in book draw from it the callous image of its own technique.
Everything senile with unguessed voices, the salt of the mane and piles of thick bread with fortnight.
Resplendent empire.
The triangle functions to rescue a system to its environment.
It is a tale of fatherless holes I took on bruised precisions.
Well of a congealed shaken shoreline.
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From @begintheday