Millennia ago our intrepid pumpkin ancestors made the trek from their Greek homeland West to the happening place, the magic of effort on the game board. Freedom is just another word for whatever, what are words but the soul’s complex of growth principle times cardboard box for shipping in a race against existential not having. Pumpkins are not shipped in the sense that someone wearing shorts and driving a truck leaves pumpkins on doorsteps at all hours driving economic points of tinder. Pumpkins grow in earthly paradises until ripe enough to take shelf space. Shelf space marks the end game of saturated marketplace of pumpkins rotting in the pleasure. Realize place of big, where couch cannot hold candles. Pumpkins and the panoply of curcubits grow into the land with roots delving deep into an earth made of earth and dogmatic tryst. Pumpkins know the importance of holding place. Place becomes a canvas with boundary. Boundary poses a moment. Here becomes handled, just like your dignity. Now carve your pumpkin in thoughtless title. Greek pumpkin origin story has no pizzazz. Plenary suffocation by pronouns knowing that pumpkins have an inner light that feels like slime. The true slime is cognitive, and not to be ignored. Half ton pumpkin fancies apply to the concept of dreams, Akkadian empire of Sargon sort of shit. Admit it as you always do: you've done well!
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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