Shored of gnash. Tucked in toward a new small sun, and watched ears flood. The sticky drive towards putting together. Three slick main streets diverged under the apartment, with Bigfoot confused in Heaven. Bangladesh and still coming up for air, poor rivers. That which splashes sacred, in not believing home and garden climbs to the meadow of Craggy Gardens. If we was cruisin'. Back in the Homeland, monkeyed about the keystrokes. Dad was a masked ex-murderer, oblong with exploding maples on April Fool's Day.