Monday, May 24, 2004

artifact redolent of blossomed to death. these hovering crafts lift a rich taking off. the stars are march until you land in each desert in mind. the words are tender, if you can see over the clouds. draining desperation remains. we've had a weaving interruption in our program, by stalling inside a well. that water was fine, inside and moving toward cold but only moment's loss. the landing machine wore on into the night, till finally, and we could see the desert proper. such darkened senseless peace, which is very inbtelligent. we're not many miles from Vegas, imagine, and could drink beer. we could be human someday, in a buttery time and willing. blossoms have risen to complexity, a fierce compostion while the aliens nerve up. no one remembers sentries until it is late. late, that is, and a desert march. a desert wake, for the loss of something telling. the washing machine has stopped.

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