It was bizarre
It was the blizzard gnarling the youth of the earth to the look of bicycle accidents and the superiority of silence, even promiscuous silence, in a mind with wheels
like mine
No thing is ever final but the word itself, I have to repeat that, I have to tell you again without reminding you, to remember myself. I'll put out the jasmine that was in the air then the way you put out the jazz man, put him the street-- that was not democracy you crazy mockingbird motherfuckers, that was not even getting to you or past you which was bizarre, which was the blizzard gnarling the use of the earth so you could no longer exploit its dreamsooth-- In winter, the fertility that lingers is forced upon the mind like fame on him,
which isn't why he kept playing the giddy statue too-range-for-you music but it's why you paid him to/think (so), to design a world for growing, like a child, is the only way to experience snow-- those second chances
