Simple Theories

The most necessary grows legs and improves to human interaction. It works wings into conversation without allowing what. What grows fangs and dips fuel from tasty earth. We are ready to sleep. Sleep causes antic rapture full of waves from Robert Mitchum and/or Audrey Hepburn. Waiting for farms and wind and tall trees while pop psychology wraps ferment. A slope of information rises above the baseline information of what we have done. Someone is 19 years old, and told to be 19. Lax streets inquire regiment, with minty freshness. And it could resolve for folks that, circumscribed and around the neighbourhood, someone did something. Something is so much, inclusive and unbending. We could tread on nominal traits and factoids, as a bluster massacre occurs. People die and aren't finished. People kill and are not finished. This is an expression of solemn doubt. What is the franchise? Tears seep savour, place names grow into world. Who are the what? A poem is a cage for registry,

The sky shows grey for the first time. A pond of grey matters in the cool morning starting. A bouncy theme of rain mildly, on the docket, till we care. Some doors and a proper type of tree for current events, we heard about new televisions. We now listen to exquisite types of maintaining. We hold a portion behind us. The news pops open the fridge, in which we keep. This strop of letters urges a narrative facing an ordinary day. Some examine, some applaud, some still like, most quickly establish. Still rain extends into stories of where we were. We were next to a chair, resisting the urge of parking metres, trying onions for a change. We were open to books and clocks and tapered candles that whicker. The closest thing still reveals marvelous distance. Religion tastes like bent oatmeal in transit. Satisfied clouds remain.