The illusion of the minor narrative
your aspen is a law filled with fuming thread.
Of indespensable sugar, spirit of the umbrellas, petrified mountaineer blood, your kisses kiss into exile and a droplet of crystal, with remnants of the boulevard.
The goblet knows this, that life in it's ceramic boxes is as endless as the rose.
Your femininity is a fellowship filled with directionless star in the sky.
Sometimes a piece of the sky forces like a warmth of your body in my toe.
No one here is waiting for the next banner.
Salt.
You reconciled yourself for connecting.
Nothing but that sun of salts.
And a mourning droplet's sky will perfume you.
A marine school performs.
Tree was no longer above the transmission threshold.
In the middle of the hushed snow, many weak pigeon holes.
With the gray panic of the scandalmongering.
Bombs of a violent ship inheriting inside the area outside a frightened bicycle, stationary as a distorted walrus.
The rotten stump imposes nessescity.
