Save, the clear, a breeze a caracature formation, save, the way it hands its graves over to its young. Laser lights shine down. Bloated. Exploding a thousand times that day, over at the river bed, gray and cold, I never came close to them. I hide. Or I shiver from the cold when I dare to try to go near. Lanky textures and the gray cold scare me away, I can't sleep soundly there, the place is bad. I want to, I desire its presence yet I will not. Salamander pile, unmoving without orders, and then some of them are not alive enough to move, so they are killed. The grassy river bed hides down the slope, not steep. Plummeting servitude, gray rocks, sharp, getting heavier as the dirt below them solidify and join them.
The river is fed from a source of water, from a large body of water located far away from this river bed, miles apart, deftly off the maps. That is more dreaded than the river bed. Solvents disappear in the soil; matches light the water on fire.
I won't touch it with my finger or walk upon it; I stay away. It is loud and it is quiet and it is hateful, peaceful then to violently spew. It's garnered and shrined, yet never exhibited. I hate it. It's muddy, unfocused when you get there (if you ever do). I won't. It's cursed property. It's bloody.
Lacquered shit down by the river bed. The flames rise out of the water gallantly with sheer colors I think I heard someone say you can see through. The cold makes me shiver and I'm not near it. The coughing sounds from no where, they evaporate as they distinguish. The coughing and gazing -- the only sounds heard from above the quiet. Cowboy saddles. Shoelace victims. Admonishing the characteristics in the soul, clobbering the son of a bitches. Everyone.
Seething lassitudes. I shuttle away. It helps. I go away. Fade away.
RIVER BED 106
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