Monday, September 15, 2003

the people were perfect in terrific tree. there was particulate in the asphalt, and no fault, and the screen of sky bent again and again, to us or our powers. we remade in a clock, tiring with the train and all night. freed perpetually with smoke and taming, we let the words ring out. ours is national in a gust let shorn. release is inevitable, full alien report. come sweet in the drizzle and dream, for we are long to go.

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