Sunday, October 28, 2012

The laugh of salsa in the field invigourates us. If you can imagine a friend who can fly, you fly with that friend. That friend is the colour of temper, is wonderful, is flying. We else have rocks for shoes without spanning indices that lead to set functions with cultural overtones. So it goes, the roof needs a rational haymaker.

Your friend who can fly seizes a minute like it’s nothing and spends the day. This isn’t easy and we have rules. We can secede from this union of world in mind, so we push. We abstract, which is verifiable if you do it right. We insist on vacations, when the back deck can be crowned with morally just gas grills, and the man cave behaves redeemably.

Your friend who can fly sees something red, and that’s one minute across the sky. The green is every time you saw a leaf. Splendid is the flight of your friend thru actions counted on a hand. And words along the drive to hoping for more bring something that doesn’t fade. Yet fading is the normal class action suit. Mining difference is delicate decay.

Your friend who can fly needs a home in our heaven.

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