The mantra has been retracted. In the garage, a thrip inverts momentum.
Commentary blocks loud noises otherwise. Intention as a black hole
sorts blancmange and feathers. May you be waltzed across the drawn
blue season. Demitasse and foregone clues. In only moments, the endorphins
will have sprigged their way to stature of an independent clause. Whose
form of worthiness achieves the point of squealing? I invert your patience with my
knowing glance. I offer you a trance-lift when a surfeit of our mercy camps out
on the water's edge. People talk. They splay their views into retorts. I hope
to patronize, said one. I hope to fraternize, said two. I hope to individuate
my long-held thought of wanting what I need, said three. Now you have the
story. In narration one repairs to drawing. Roomy little patches of the psyche
blanch, right when we know they will be pearly. And conglomerates are
thirsty, now and at the hour. A venture cap is op-cit to the nervy. In a New
York moment, we abhor our betters. Chancing volume over speed.
Insectual reverberation, at a moment's "no," and now
Sheila E. Murphy
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