Early on, it was perceived that we could kick mile ferry eye in the fallow words, by winning all the little streams of language in many lives. Layering our harbors and ends of the world. Expand the art of the fugue. Very quickly, the nose in the weeds in the folded triangle in middle of the palms, we learned that, as in the sheet or the sheet, there were seeds to clear the page, the fullness of love . That the coup was the foreshore is unreasonable time. Long was drunk at the weep book down his Whitewater over the lips. It was long believed that wandering spirits would pass unnoticed.
Until the day when the air has eaten the cherries remugle crunchies. This margin is exhilarating sling appeared to mind the greyness. Until the day they seized around, brooded ribbon hypnotic flow of the world. All confused the language of trade. Until one day, they have sniffed fleeting soul, then reduces our paper in exile islands of grief. Until one day it all became useful, packed in the daily death. Where they fomented roundup of books. Proclaimed their bonfire.
Until the night, engaged by heart, we have blown under the cloak funeral
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