The town is perfect, it climbs in rate of exchange. It has a city in its dreams, dreams of city seeing. Seeing multitude as a tone, and vision as a plaint, the town is tons by standards.
We are the people pieces of the town that settle to the city, vision as a plaint. The workers, the sleepers, the people fill the streets. Each word they say fills the words they didn’t say.
We arrive in plenty looking at the streets. Our plenty fills the streets, filling city with the town. We step our words closer or far, for reasons of the sun.
The city is a perfect climb, perfect plaint, perfect look how we can climb. The town is only people only stopping some, only eating some, only talking some, but city in the day.
Not Donald, dear ones, improbable and zilch. Not that faction filling rivers darkly. Not that lone and speaking vice of secular remaining but what about when we just put hands together? What is a river saying now that it hasn’t said before? Only rivers talk, people can’t begin