Friday, November 21, 2014

Sword Dance for the Latter Person

Sometimes the stand there in the face of bending while the actual season simpers offering stab wound or panic but the wheel seizes an ivory leaf, the green of escape or town where rivers or just a package from when the time was right.

Later eves, or eaves, and the special sane brushes the talk show off simple margin, you are reading people.

People are the marvel when it becomes time, but time is an extra word, too much, something gets lost. Translation was a door last year.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Sword Dance Simply

Those days become, the rock exists. Garden basks in book. The eminence of colour shows bullion season, littoral calling, we free hold.

What tempo culls the structure of obedience to dead past? Dying is a name for lack of effort, or just a blink. Pity creates a lack of maximum when we need a thunder clap and clouds that file for rain. Words make no sense, the sense lives as it will.

Government nest piles on, in the terms of horde, or orderly explanation in a nation of nothing. You say the ledge, the ledge owns nothing. Nothing is the greatest price.