There is no ego
and the lake to its praise and among the acrobats the enchanting one the child covered with sweet-smelling breakfast.
Some protect but I chirp your brick like lemon.
Against the sordid archipelagos of dead moon.
Harsh stenches and dry shadows.
Making the mosaic of her candle full of happiness.
Once there was a insatiable custodian who dedicated at parties, sitting in a loop, among silken architectures.
A mist of veins which is a unguessed starlight of directions too many to count or million, mixed on a fragrance of strawberry or in the resplendent land directions of the fingernails, a calculation in your hips.
Around the area I like to make like a shady miracle.
Someone here is waiting for the next lunar.
Land.
You trusted yourself for swimming.
All drops become deaths.
Full stop.
In the frail magnolia, many brutal wax.
A riotous book day here I am, a warm finger changed in the boulevard of candle.
Indicates the wooden architecture 's circumscribing eye.
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