What Is It I Suppose Will Happen

Minus you I say under my breath. Minions I am one and what about the cutoff date, the situation ethicist left leaning on the curb? What of the century we've donated to archives that might some day count? Suppose we were ourselves these flurries that won't even cleanse. What might they chafe together, and when walking, would we find our tracks might seem to last? A frayed old soaking rope is never going to dry. So pulp is not the worst thing that can happen. Daylight is. And more than that, the heliotopography intact will stucco your indulgence faster than the bloodline said to have defined you through the northern parts of circumstance. As your personal thin twin, I leave you rinses of my center, and I rever(s)e bequeathing you your story. If you agree to have released me in a time plan we can norm, I'll swim to safety in whatever dimesized versus elephantine dimension I can accummulate. Your sadness infiltrates possible refinement when my mention stays where it has been, if only to demonstrate the straypoints of indifference that wash into known water. Composition is a part spin cycle, and a morsel of the lariat in kind. When I divide my conquest between you and yours, I find myself among ye. This cubicle replete with plucked intentions, your and my calligraphy no longer matching. Here am I, a partial island, neck and neck with petty silver and refurbished paint. The likelihood is I will drive into your caldron unless I trust subtraction as substratum of your vintage. Now I'm forth again with seconds to reply. The cinders echo what I think reveals my legacy where nutrients would be.

Gold coast versus the magnetic properties of water, a camera flush with thought