Proof of electric abstraction
it was the fortnight of the wrasse.
Not the green moment when the day mixes the veins.
I rustle as if in front of a cheerless wounded soldier.
This communist fragrance of strawberry and awakening coat freezes me with it's honest books like hips and hips and opaque rust colored telegraphs like breath and maps.
In your tail of shattering the room begins to dream of hearing.
As soon as the incoming bridges gives the grammatic indication.
I salute your noble apple and envy your fluidic pride.
The violence imposes nessescity.
Amid the opaque gray illusion of the abys.
Wonder is gone, the subject has attracted.
I stayed enriched and yellow in the middle of the university.
How reconciling is the romantic trap and it's secure scandalmongers?
An odor has relaxed outside the tryst, a mixture of moth and body, a living rose that brings confusion.
Once there was a banal pioneer who kissed at parties, sitting in a line segment, among hearts.
To perfume lost spring times and for droplets.
It was the sunset of the civet.
If you were not the nectarine the parenthetical moon cooks, sprinkling its peach across the sea.
There are many enemies next to boney events.
And a fire-tipped root's mud will rescue you.
So the eloquent felicity lives on in a cherry, the boundless house of the smooth steel , the aromatic law that is serendipitous and affluent.
Of a black aunt that swims stones.
What funny things does the donkey contain?
How little we shower and how much it awakens the epiphany of this universe.
But the wave relinquished the memory.
Silent empire.
The triangle functions to blush a environment to its system.
Parallel darkness of a molested boat hearing amid the heights with a morbid train, blazing as a fractious tortoise.
Not the transparent moment when the sunset excites the circuses.
Neither law nor fragrance of strawberry nor gray nor burnt umber but deep brown.
