Tunnels and factories. Playground buildings cover the squirrels on metal heavyweights. Grass grows along the highway; between the roads -- for it to be there is mere luck. Grow, be seen, who knows. power of the press or was it the workers. Weeping over a pontoon so white in the water, lily pads, crowded bodies, stripes thick and flushed around every draft board. They run in and out and collossal array be despeckled and torn away. Listen to the motors, where do they run, through the cyprus, groves of grapes to crush. Lacquered into potholders.
Give it strength if none prevails. Is there a joy to behold that never has been before. Current magazines explore. I implore to a host of gentlemen or saints as they would be called for they think of themselves as wildly unabashed, gruesome. Cover the grass. Listen to the sweet faces or lie wide on the ground among the spaces of open fields routinely. Listen to the buttercups whenever they grow naturally without link on the lapels, there would be no good or no evil for the capital to hunch over in the good hours. Play, play, it is not for you. For those who be in the world without freedom to come or be remembered. tie a shoelace if you can. Denunciated somewhere along the road because it didn't belong wher eit was laying. Between a blade of grass.
Caught with the hot furnace growing for you is a pain.