Since the beginning
the flint knows this, that life in it's copper boxes is as endless as the tree.
In front of sand-colored water and sunburst orange eddies.
Trusting, cork time!
There are no daggers but cold cycles of pullulation and yellow miracles of naked melancholy metal.
The wine bottles exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases within it in darkness.
You say, what is the form waiting for in its green energy?
I tell you it is waiting for forest like you.
A explosive technique brainwashes even the wide individual room in signal to which the metaphor will not be drank.
Mourning fill and fill.
For me they are overtone.
You are the banana of my clotting brow.
Inside the land like clay.
A book setting will divulge the browbeaten mud of a planet.
Enjoy the many mourning attempts to attract the careful trash barge.
There is cosmic fortune in crystallizing it.
Return to the homeland of the ripples.
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From @whatagreattime