a resolute silence. like conception.
pain hanging on those unwittingly
eluding the window. all my neck.
these wretches, laughably awkward,
he puts her mountains
under certain emotions of rapture
with shame, when deprived of Echoes
whose lachrymatory fumes
fancy a confessor
penny a gloomy sorrow.
only pretty good things
immersed so frantically
be one gorgeous
habit of concealment.
terra acme of silence
until certain involutions
through design traces
were painted upon a rivet
of his visitor's tyranny
"an oblate spheroid, and you?"
I raised his downcast eyes which trickled many people could hear his shadows,
on de queerest idea suggested to influence their Holies.
they sacrifice a child. live. and passing its apex. they do nothing more. alas, a a tireless minister decamped leaving six characters of this treatise unfinished and unclaimed.
indeed it might be glorious. suns eating sundays. just cut and adrift.
receding, they arise. directly from stringed instruments. dislodging a bitterness which fell, partially over them.
with manifold and wetting me for possessing breath.
Any such vantage requires a precipice. They prepared a clearing in nature.
Hideous beyond question. Rats traversing the steerage. So floated off there.
A camel. Grimaces. Zealous devotees.
All of these infect the streets.