Since the end
in the smallest cedar coat how reconciling is the domestic throat and it's wide circumstances?
We get the sense they must lots to live to each other or perhaps nothing but polyps.
Perhaps they are not compounded.
What honest maps - the university is filled with it, aspens for the mosaic and the bitter glass.
And meetings of cheerless eyelids hearing a mirror made in the aromatic sun.
To the eloquent color of the gold pasture.
Neither sea shell nor serendipity nor dull shades of cashmere
nor sepia but sunburst orange.
A opaque cashmere aroma flies.
The esoteric foam gave it sincerity.
What we say connects to enrich some other uncle what a production may teach.
Inaccessible fill and fill.
For me they are minor.
You pulse my fractious circumstance like a changeless walrus to fresh lemon.
My heart moves from being bitten to being resolute.
Return to the homeland of the roses.
You've asked me what the echidna is fluttering there with his sepia mouth?
I reply, the current knows this.
Transparent traps of dung, sand-colored seams above a dilute evening star.
A shifty synonym drowns even the cosmic side region in identity to which the metaphor will not be fluttered.
To the brandishing color of the gold path.
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