The things I thought so big. The things East like orgasming through ice hunting blubber while all the while mounting drums. [Have carried.] Have moved inward parts divided by some 600 masses coming through channels and subsequent events floating in the sea, [made of leather.] Dragging men, the call of missing breasts now lays frozen. Now we say to eyelashes. Now we say mid-summer. As there is fleeting, so is there launching.
The seagulls, now slippery and bloody [come in sets] with heads rocking, a manner much like giving to men [upon said private] no more dots to mark a panting eye.
Something came of being well maintained. To be like white trees and not good meat. This is the question, is it not. Is there too much vision blurring and is there not the dirt to make speech again.
This bed has transformed to bones, working its way through an Atlantic shattering. This takes Capital, this takes an energy of turkeys but the horses are moulting, [too late a fall.]
If breaking up of words means plaque. If indeed nothing found then nothing lays claim and all is traveling and all is checkered. In best of sparring this makes holes and makes face upon silver ears, ready for harvest. Such giving had always been and this is a gifting bases and this is the golden and the golden is for the baskets.
What then is nurturing. If planting means loss of name, of keeping, such shame of the new generations and all is surrounding. Now how to stand. Now to pray. Such brilliance like the fine lines of ink [like in rain] no more to waves. No more to a hasty hunger.