The winding wind balances the fray. We mock the dark star satellites because they used to be cans of soup. 21st Century, and the literary cantina is open for too much business. I'm glad I can find my way home by doing jumping jacks. I'm sure i used to be a thing, some sort of odd job employee of the months. Where is my eraser? Hard. Brittle, like a stone that I can only use to contact the dead. The universe is dark tonight, the stars are hidden in some TV seance drifting through the junk food and the biting thaw. A few flakes touch the ground and the wind pushes me. I stayed home this winter vacationing and attempting to heal the finality. Ok optimism may break, and flow into some new bloom and Daedalus. But what am I going to do in the time differential?
A magic controversy, substance. The things we collect and discard, and remember on cold holidays and the grind of some empty club, the music evaporating the feedback. I'm negative, you are probably positive emotionally. Well I listen for something new, and I used to read Whitman 3 or 4 times. Food is expensive, the whisper reminds, Provide something to the ones with their knees on the stones. Carving the dark erosion and the taxidermy of the vegetable that no one eats anyway because it's medicine. I recall that old trip, the sand in my shoes and the haunting.
Someone said yes!
I will find the necessary distance.
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