it seems strong, with codgers on chairs that loom over linoleum present. strings of dawn-coloured breaking hearts rope the votive.
people smile at the young ones, as crumbs fall. the falling is so strong and went so far. codgers boondoggle on the rocks of the distant foreshadow, with close naming present day.
the people are still, with codgers for backbone. all people are dull and insist on sentences. flowers fix tunes in the taffy-flavored wallpaper.
why, then, are roses so much like walls? it seems strained with watery codgers, who fall off pronouns to the present, more or less. they stare at tremendous ducts filled with air of the most riproaring verisimilitude.
you could almost breathe. these are the codgers on the wall, and the wall is a sentence. a sentence is next to linoleum. that's the smell of urine, in addition to the plan that went before.
some people are no people at all, but it varies. look it up. we think we love, because linoleum isn't final, then we do love, because linoleum is final, like eyes
eyes meet codgers, who meet eyes, and the eyes have it. it is the very sentence in which the codger troubles the date, that present day long ago, when linoleum and roses on wall meant something without spurn.
the rest of the pepper is black or green, a tonic or no whit more than an intrusion. still, the people, where they are or where they are not.
that still people of present is the beginning of after all. when that sentence speaks, you listen to linoleum. linoleum is the new codger, the old one rose from wallpaper.