This morning, the legs of Jimmy Page lift three inches into the air. The air itself reminds us that water left our tears alone. Seas became a virtue of cessation, if we were so lucky. Cessation is the spot-on word for what Fu Manchu in his novelistic approach sought for perchance.
Jimmy Page now delivers a proper escalator to the next floor. This is the definition of some year on record. People were people back then, not memories or assertions. The Mamas and the Papas were invited to be terrific. They were rented, but the imprint remained. We will have to ask later, when later arrives.
Hours later, in monstrance, the scope assumes that Jimmy Page must have risen 2 more inches. Five inches of certifiable altitude in a world that denies the nearest mountain. Jimmy Page scoffs at alliteration, he can make any noise possible.
Hijackers felt distraught (historical note) at the ambiguous idea of liberty. Does that mean chocolate sauce? And how much exactly, prosecutor of exactly this very? The Mamas and the Papas sing “Monday Monday”, although they are dead.
When you were dead, did you love the 90s? Kurt Copay lost the adjustment and it was unhappy. Madonna of the 80s hung in there, 3 points and versatile entanglement. She has aspirated her name and exact longitude sans latitude. We need room for quibble. The group assigns. We love you, M, and the segment of the century you held dear.
Relating to Jim Morrison’s mouthful of vomit, do we have pure direction or simply a card on which someone wrote pasquinade? Bob Dylan lost a balloon named Bob Dylan Lost a Balloon. His asking price startled the left bank of waiting too long.
Jimmy Page postures guitar at knee level for the sublime off track betting of possible bag. Good, we will meet at 6 inches above sea level. Death has visited with proximate care. It’s now our turn to fulfill the ambivalent structure that leaves us in time.