ot so much a tradition of saving but mirrored closeness in which we read many backwards proclamations. must be important, to come to us so! the colour of snow outside will send shockwaves to ports of call, distance, the trust in disporting merrily thru springtime romp of trusted tulips or hyacinth alight with possible futures. further radiated diagrams may tell us more of what else but the blindspot, chances of arriving too soon.
seasons made darker than attesting to the satisfaction of a nation under arms.
gross natural product.
cultural impasse...
where was the backstory when we cried over something useless or playful, a tumbled shack in the middle of something decorative (trial poetry) or emphasizing some radical interest in becoming natural. broken speed, capsule summary, legions of relief workers on call...
the rocket lands upon the base of backstory, which renders the stuck gloss of ice a miracle of disaster. the hopeless world lets ice inhabit all thoughts,flushed to the bottom of the tide and flattened even by the tender urge of war. seems like faring awfully poorly, reading thru the sounds of leaving all behind.
(( I suppose I should congratulate you on getting out of jail ))
the mystery bluer than shocking waves
today or
ever again
