She said there were votes, called people, and they hurt her. No flying remained in the sky until a tire slipped from a car going carefully into sunset. Then weird clouds expanded with a sigh that suggested strong habits of waiting for the road to clear. The tire rolled heaven, almost friends. She’s okay, but the demons want to vote.
Is she living in a paint-spattered room while the sun sets in the east, the readership might ask. The conservatives maintain a bunch of flowers to burn in their mind. Principles give voters a chance to finalize their own failure. A river filled to the brim clatters over the red and brown landscape, chuckling about captives. She wishes like a river.
Her days are unsuccessful, flying into trees instead of simple words for tree. The votes are calculated living proxy declarations while the wind whips. They don’t say she flowers with each word she sees. The votes are just plain sick, reaching fulfillment with a god-like trend to fall apart. This is not the love in the reading, more like staked claims from savage hunger, brought from the country of falling. Voting for pelts and misprision, the conservative rebate tucks graduating impulse into the spoiling water. We still can love her, even as she’s pieced away.