Many working days but not in the bubble of the air-conditioned prophecy….
Let them come in the shade of bright sunshine.
Continuously saws the soft soil of blood the diluted frowning of trifle or significant pride.
The setting artery.
A portable port below the head.
Yonder a beautiful harbor….seagulls…A serene kindergarten….
The signature of a straight line hears the story bowing its head.
It has not seen them.
Perhaps one day it will see…..Perhaps it will not…
World after world.
The knotty lamppost.
The vast destination.
Where is the passport?
Taking shelter in phenyl, loses its trump card the root of the dawn.
Mere floating causes death or inertia.
