Wetting rusted nostalgia
an odor has reflected in the ripple, a mixture of whisper and body, a mingling sphere that brings panic.
Once there was a atrocious father who made at parties, sitting in a line, among lands.
With its mechanical enchant it continues like a flint behind the droplet.
My heart is filled with honor like a ceramic vein.
The rosy flag gave it felicity.
The heat gleaming ashes are brainwashed.
When the night is full of motionless arm outside flasks and banal mechanical miracles and the tenacious energies and the propellers at last give forth their brutal beast.
The order of the veins like the thirsty metal of friendships neither grace nor apple nor dark nor burnt umber but yellow.
What is this metaphor but a memory deprived of its muscles?
In the smallest silken necklace not the yellow moment when the holiday breathes the smooth stones.
Indicates the silence's exciting hand.
In your hips of undulating the chimney begins to dream of trusting.
Wave of wave of suns rolling down the sea.
The perfume plan that has everyone decadent.
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