I know how to organize a flower. Ten intentions weather me. Even the selected chromosome. One's metronome evades intact reclusion. What are windows for? Cohere: glass against each scenery. Refraction. Taunt apart from hapless thinning. First: to loosen each to hold a number. Third: to wait as in religion. Spotless and pre-thought. Copasetic incline. Fourth: to have suppressed while holding an alphabet. Fifth: to list. And second: old news to some to wheel. My land laced with potential portents. To absorb. Tenth: to amaze. Ninth: to garden as erasure. Eighth: to leverage cement as the precursive. So far taxed to stead. And seventh: to quiz a self of many. In a neighborhood. To repeat. The adage once. Sixth: to fever, cool as pure or nothing to advantage.
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