The sentence in Christmas became an exacting tempo, but we can slur the words. A patient interest fills the pasture where the cows renew their flesh for us. We are animals, concerned with tickets to heaven. We need a few words and at least one complete sentence. That just measures balance for the human express. If the sentence says Christmas is victory, then well will the snow fly. It will cover. It will win. No victory is human. We are gestures of the fact, then of the sentence speaking of the fact. The fact does not include the central jolly elf, who is registered in far too many waning victories. Neither can a single fact bear the truckle of reminding heaven of our hell. We have to shovel walkways with whimsy, if the bleak coal day that tonight makes clear continues in reference to how our heart feels. We make tired trails to pant suits, leisure suits, something something suits of premium meet our cause. Folk sing of something. The thing is immaterial, but singing says s...
poems, fireflies...