Simple Theories

A town called Tempered Evening called, the blurry light of grampus moon and recent states of affliction. Can we all just visit east of where we are, only to touch a human arm? No warriors leave the station when the big Amtrak megatron moves over the cool landscape. The station resumes its documentation, which means a leery heaven full of don’t. We can only surmise blackened gusts, with the effort of William Blake as portal, and of just as crazy Emily Dickinson, her pivotal gingerbread declining. Diamonds make distinct letdowns, as also the verbs that strays over the possible road toward what the capture means.

True night is elaborate and vented. Such the stars, the wind from west or east, greening dim of trees. In the morning, tides of blue pull breath and eyes. We are in the centre of the outward upward or trying to decide. Not every blink contains a lifetime but woods in wild make seasons change. Today is the only day to say today. Otherwise, resistance stops the ball.