Wet summer centrism, humanly purveyed, attaches to dying moments like brother talk brother on the endless morrows.
Believe in gestures of sorrow, a day wasn’t built in Rome. Reasonable people, floating thru, created the very walls that feel like bursting vital arteries.
The last will never be finished. Sun rises above the ramparts as an eager saying among fully detonated land forces.
An overlord of Mesopotamia merely, just standing between two rivers, with vast, stung imagination and how easily the world fits into the idea of place.
All basis exudes words derived from bones and choosing. All dates include the time after and the thinking before.
A cold wind secures the data of a cold wind. Choice fades into the first breeze of war, just a word or two, and a matchless equation.
Later, a monument on the town green will fade further into the acrobatically secured past of which we shall sing.
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