Canisters beheaded lids on fire, the bird flew panicked, blustered bowls, no contents, silly pandered grafts overlaid on the clouds. The lids scorched the bowls with their barely warm glances, ignited out of a bad liquid, a power mite.
Java, laminated on the stove, a hint of where the burn marks came in, and following bowls and lose undoubtful liquid that had spilled onto the floor, on its way down the pipes. Laser through the clouds. Beam tops, beam tops, power mites, lazy lasers intake on the basin, surface scratches, power mites jumping at the startled plays to guard what was left. Semi traps hadn't gone off. No catch today. Not yet. The lasers did not make the traps clap shut. The traps are smarter than that, if there is no catch, they don't clap shut. Beads of liquid shit couldn't fool the machines. Lasers burned the clouds stuck away, a porn timetable in which to judge its distance. It stuck there, the lasers didn't draw closer. The clouds prevented it from happening. Like double clenched fists.
Hands, bearing a symbol in yellow, hardly noticeable except upon examination, ruminated and rotated wrists, the bones removed, transgressed. Moving the wrist in circles made cute figures, the finger open. Move, move, wrist moves in patterns.
Roses and flowers are easy. The wrists turns and forms combinations to be remembered while the next ones are made. Then I look at them all together and see the awfully pretty designs I have made, I study them, and can see the colors slowly fade, they are shadows, then they are gone.
Flowers -- I can smell them, yet they are gone. I move my wrists again. The colors have been used up. No more colors. I can sense there will be no more flowers. Black and white. I can't make more flowers with my wrists.
I want to buy refills but they aren't made to be bought. I want to do more. I wave my hands and it doesn't work. The shapes do not stay and they do not drink the colors, there is nothing anymore.
RIVER BED 102
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