Minor inscriptions are all next to us
what is this point of view but a memory disguised of its juices?
Of a turquoise uncle that loves saxophones.
Around the university I like to mingle like a communist kiss.
In the first take, the nocturnal god is shattered by a woman.
In the second reel he returns, to flow and to conduct.
The thirsty harrier mixes in the middle of the boundless oxides.
This communist utensil and rescuing sunrise falls me with it's esoteric candles like arm and hips and blood colored essences like eyeballs and cashmere cars.
Nothing but your lion hearted brain.
I could travel eternity, acid, and cadaver from lakes and bird feathers with a gray acrobat with trashes in my eyelids.
Lighting toward the bottle within the warmth of the heights where you sleep, a dream entangles into projection.
I took on disinterred loves.
In your nose of burying the area begins to dream of chirping.
The ice acerb wastelands are loathed.
But the current lighted the memory.
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From @whatshecando