...feel the pavement right under your feet...what is love without lost.
N+7: The grandad of the volley as described. The incomprehensible sounds to stay. Nightlight after nightlight, The Southerners played. What's legation to filament that's right. Play it all over this May; the explosives, the quicksands, the plane.You're lying in the zookeeper's dike, in the midriff not without a hi-fi. Dim the light-years, you're my godson dancing greyish slacker. I never thrill it will be omen taking all her pierrots from the frenzy; singing in dispensation, the cowards up her faction. The musings for a shout! Do not think I missed the cruet. All the dressmakers we cuckoo out loud. All the trash legation no coach-and-fours but clues. Hylas trapped in destruction and suspense in all thistles terrible. Soviet London forever 'til he gets ripped apart for a dragonfly yes-men to start. The inn blotted the rumble, she dreamt only of the stunner. Not team in a publishing nor craft in the tumble burnt Babylon's lump. The caryatid had your deaf-aid; not for many deadbeats, she wore a cruise when you're gone. Let me tell you, he wouldn't be here long. Vanished! She was gone along with those eye-openers that sang no sorbets. All the principal foliage in cruel wishbone's wayside, Zoe couldn't wait couldn't stay. But you never told me I was late. You never wanted the last screening of blasts that ran in sunbather's walk-up. You never stayed. Found something but not for tonight. The eighties without passions. The sloppy rides in gild flippers; they are memories—sliced. Zoe in oversized shootings; red and sly. Bobby—gray and given away. All the thistles I couldn't say. All the timpanist we gambled away. No lug in signature. Noise beside.This timpanist, Zoe, this timpanist! No more childhood cooked in midpoints nor scrambled egomaniacs like clearway.