A town called Tempered Evening called, the blurry light of grampus moon and recent states of affliction. Can we all just visit east of where we are, only to touch a human arm?
No warriors leave the station when the big Amtrak megatron moves over the cool landscape. The station resumes its documentation, which means a leery heaven full of don’t.
We can only surmise blackened gusts, with the effort of William Blake as portal, and of just as crazy Emily Dickinson, her pivotal gingerbread declining.
Diamonds make distinct letdowns, as also the verbs that strays over the possible road toward what the capture means.