Lampy lore reveals the window slightly. The woman soon to be arriving prefers no sentences begin with
'and'. Her liberty is yours and mine and seventy new figurines' about to stay clear of the sunlight.
Is there any reason to invest in doubt? No mention of the dowry or the chaperone gone jobless.
Now a sotto promptness sleets across the shield. I say to selves I only think about: "Why us?"
The surfaces are pocked. Mechanical indifference leaves the tubas with their scars still sounding plump,
insistent, sure. No matter how advisable storm windows seem, they keep Orpheus imagined in suffused light.
I have to look up everything and more. The damages, profound, amount to store rooms of divisible new
stay-at-home deception. Now and then, expression fleet their way into one's mind. Whose mind is that?
Subscriptions are available in every meantime. Only fifty percent complete if you compete with what attracts
attention. I believe in leverage and a vault. I also think of storebought frames as housing everything from
photographs to inadvertent stains. The latitude allowed belongs to Dave. I have to ask him something,
but he's long since waved my thoughts away. I read the evidence, you read the eminence, he supplied us
with and with . . . If altars are a remedy, just think what blur the pastors flaunt. Parmenides, once fraught
with habit, rapidly imposed these damages. If you've a mind to use erasers, try them now, and be prepared
to talk about how what we are forgetting has affected you and yours and . . .
Sacrifice, prospective sharing, sorted clumps of unidentified location
Sheila E. Murphy