And finally . . .


It's fair to say: come as far back as a free lunch manual busking for a night between the lungs. Layers of dreaming walls all reach for pass and pause, vase and various rivers informing a long spell of roots layed out to sleep over in. Rapid words mask a task on hold: a twin master to ask where is our mixed floor of might and myth? Having an appetite for unadulterated songs of sponge and soup today calls today in broad daylight: here is a deed and yet over feet. [Being at work beats working.] Sun in which time sets a space out on tracks as though it was a fruit bowl, a knighted rock garden. Being two-tied, the air rifles a baffle, runs a year on classic soil as productive as butter slipping down a clock tower of luck. Awe is the only one that flows from yeast to east, from phrase to praise, from roam to dome.