Sunday, September 11, 2016

Gary From Accounting

Opiates are great, we live on their steps. We look back on their day, the waving light beams beaming our way. Our way is a right way, with gloss on certain words. A sentence begins this way:

Terrific towns of land, the verb to go, the land mines of nouns called people, sweat logs and purple sage, the gasping aspiration left on doorstep by the dinner bell, periods of empathy marked by patterns of neglect, pious organdy stasis, feldmarschal feelers, lateral train, town lines and more towns, the factions that said faction first, and voter registration.

Meanwhile,
a lasting impression, discussion of doubts, something in the middle pushed to the side, flecks of apple leaf in the organic autumn wind, a sort of drought like the death of some strange empty void without victims.

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