Thing

Reflecting any other time, a person left inside a glass machine becomes its own chrysalis. A membranous verse, touching up against other verses. Something please palatable to the eye. This sense of the sublime rushing up against ocean waves. So many ways to obscure a text if it's face faces. How much of time is allotted to red lights, toilets, a bed. This is common stuff for those who care to listen. I am closer than before, though further if it means anything. I like the way you move your muscles toward me. Outside, a cat with white paws, sturdier against winters here. It's a dilemma of will, as in to that with which within at and its spine. You throw a snake into water and reference dips into fish mouths, baubles to catch up with you, to be alluring and filled with smoke. Stuck with it, we move with it. Space collapses into time, and they emerge simple, clean-lined. It feels a lot like Christmas, with its rounded edges and its concern for familiarity. Who else could conceive it? Gregarious, today is the day he is going to die. Memories in a marble egg. Il ajouta avec confiance. Liars' lips move perfectly. There is a seam running down my center, rubs itself worn and comes unraveled. As it is an imperfect thing.