Theories of Sphere in their Stride

Monastic Decadence (Monk Minds)

Fluent in the sequences of spotlights,beamed giant on the torque of a deformed hill let valley, battle between the two ladies with polkadot acrylic nails. You picked their race when you pictured it, sailing by on lake/ship something cracks the glare's direction and there are shimmering freshwater yellows for all the women his eyes fell from The cathedral, the hack your dignity came back (as), vanity of a comeback, the effects are transient or mended, fast flecks of crease in the spreading well, or orphaned, like how it was for land

The whole of my time

makes a nation, last of my time makes for future, best of my time chases city, you live there, dingy intertube on the front of you like an eye or bullet proof or you can't swim the new way but are full of the procedure; flair of a glimmer of a shrug, no, dangle there, in the pinched blond caricature the rest of my time makes a home I cant find a trick in the electric terror or your near fame except when it shorts from being watched : The women fight more hot, the fisherman lob themselves into the knot, the watchmen cure wood for the port They were fighting over the anchors' shoulders 'til the earth closed, Now the match is sold to the dizzy box that shows shows and the water, neglected, hijacks the bottle and port swells and rots poses into the terrain to be absorbed by its reputation I predict you can find them dancing plain blind men across the count in exchange for the company of their footsteps, no matter weather in trespass or as guests or lovers, companions, brackets, the clap of their line makes and empire wherein you can't taste the tap but know better, refusing to say where you're really at is nowhere yet paranoid enough to admit you left the navigation up to slender women with pretty hands and the kind of hum that shields sounds from itself and now you cant tell what they're saying until they look crushed, syllables stuck in their throats muttered up into the shape of an oar between rotations, tender hexagons mistaken for adults as a form of rehabilitation or drift

What"s left of my time makes a child so well she can bribe you out of the spotlight just by being her true size and in it, herself This is too

crescent to be real so it falls to one end, which solves the problem of sinnermen with a jaunty asymmetry

they're gone