Two Script Circumference

After that I mastered the anonymous feeling between my anxieties and my desires I mastered the feeling of transfer and I drove my husband's car in the garden and the lawn turned smashing from the affection steady malachite with health. To hush him, love him more than duty. There was a kitchen and my mother was there while I drove his car in the garden. No animals came into the meal because we leave the parody in the factory working for itself plush wealth of the slaughter, can't go for that unless I came a hunter and we wear the mask in the sure-shore factory of sense, you send me, spondeeing, to leap vowels, to wipe them animals out. But when one says "animals" so generally one has already begun to not understand anything. So when I am paying attention to my language I don't talk about animals. One soul or another. By cool or some other lure or lore, I was distracted into showing my wheels. As domestic as the the railroad station I pray in Sydney Poitier Heat-of-the-Night era mystery radiance and an air-raid rated R for scenes that contain historic smoking and I am not afraid of anyone or anything pushed the FCC over the edge and the idea was banned from movies until language was ruined and rebuilt in these honeycomb moments we have before us all the misplaced quotes poking around in the garden vehicle like cobras and fiats.

As I went on my desires got stronger and my anxieties got them feeling like prices, precise, risky, veteran in purple heart jingle pinstripes at the bar reminiscing over a game of darts and lanterns. Set as ringtone. The leading role goes to the train which makes you enter some destiny between the kitchen and the garden the projector gets tangled and tingles so silver, so close the door of a horror flick everything placid is suspect and we haggled with our ecstatic comfort until the radio would play it and call us gangsters, hot wheels on the garden floor.

Blue Trane for 2 heading west around the harvest got kitchens the size of fame and just as empty after we master the feeling we practice getting it wrong, bending tempos, staying black-- and all the cliches fractured at the clutch.

Say she was to walk out on him. Say it was his biography and he didn't get a role. Say it was his country in the future (romance as backdrop for revolution) and he had pledged her restless propaganda and too many songs caught on camera, caught on fire, and when we learned we could get faster in afternoon of a Georgia faun and get to ourselves that way, we'd shake like rental machines for a remake. We'd have secret historic smoking parties in the train stations and shake then. We wouldn't even invite each other until the train leaped into a pile of cards and shook us together near Detroit. I've kept in the garden, engine running, when he calls to say he's on his way I make up a sigh and a tape deck and it's 1968 and I don't want anyone I'm not afraid of