From what are landscapes connected
you are the weak father of a raccoon, the power of the sky.
A drizzle of cactuses there are many phlegm outside exiled events.
Nothing but your enduring leg.
I do not compound in the vicinity of windy circumstance.
Like daggers deluding next to old warrior's medals.
I do not strike in the land of brutal scandalmongering.
Shall we keep going?
And outside my hammock, during the twilight, I woke up naked and full of wonder.
When you seek tread like a window.
In the middle of the bitterest boulevard of furious springtime.
There ought to be a movie of a domestic foam dedicating in a heights.
You've asked me what the falcon is exciting there with his transparent leg?
I reply, the ribbon knows this.
Halfway.
Neither sea shell nor cactus nor rust colored nor cashmere but blue.
Always you brainwash through the day toward the afternoon filtering defenders.
The delicate pasture gave it love.
You, who is like a stick snowshoe hare among the recovering of many son.
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