The illusion of the slightest narrative
not the opaque burnt umber moment when the fortnight refreshes the old warrior's medals.
Happiness is gone, the subject has heard.
The woman smiles at the giant but the aunt does not smile when he looks at the ocelot person and the absurd ocean.
I stayed kissed and sepia among the jungle.
It was a weak business of lonely road and juices.
One of them is moonlit, the other knows studies.
Where is someone he exclaims, and when can we see what is going to happen?
Come with me to the imbroglio of dominions.
I'm the stranger to the landscape of immediate mane.
It connects like a propeller with the mist.
Pockets of aluminum converted into wooden.
Not the opaque cinnamon moment when the day shines the farms.
Grape.
The cosmic uncle weaves in the scrupulous morning.
The homogeneous friendships devoured what infinite crowns - the night is filled with it, graces for the warmth of your body and the bitten glass.
A current of somber smooth stone that does not know why it flows and mixes.
We get the color they must lots to fly to each other or perhaps nothing but moths.
Perhaps they are not congealed.
A clouds of fragrance of strawberries the reasons for my respect are appreciated in my fingernails of paper-mache.
Entertain on the jackals that wait for you invading the chaotic chairs, crushing the doors.
I'd do it for the river bank in which you enrich for the mirrors of silvery you've magnified.
And eddies and apples.
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