We are in the skin of the eye, the colors scraped into the night blast. It is after a painting trip. In a place worn with pleasure. We do not know where to take the view that great leap into the void now depreciated by the wings of the brush. We put her head against the cool tile.
We do not always know what is expected of a wharf, a jump anthrax, a sky that washes down the shades. We know we are moving from melancholy. We will move chills unearthed in the flesh of a room. The songs are mornings that give ants the heart. We
not always know what is expected of a breach, a fabulous drift, a new heaven to walk on our legs. Sometimes they take us to a table. In a polychrome molt. Simply enjoy the time before the fall of a naked light as to the origin of the world.
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