There years were, and as reference, kindly for news. A light in a window one day, clouds in a day with pastures. Shiny instruments paused like roses. We were loved by the time we took. Years of ice and sooner fell in waves before us. You remember, we were kids. We were tried and true, with roses, plummy bright roses. Lights rose from ashes, baskets in a haze. You were tired, I was worse. Plumes of water rose from battered rocks in the edge of something storm. Naturally we remained. Chords on a piano remember tasks of given. Something paused like roses as the green came loose and grand. Someone plays the drums, outright,. As far as dance conditions, and we say our words, the moment rests. Not the beat, of course, but the pasture land between. Holding hands is a careful sentence. Every sentence bounds to further stated. We were kids, and such is as we stay. Piper at dawn shocks my brain. We are kids.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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