A beautiful morning; we go down to the arena. A cold wintry day; we
open some purse. A day is lapsing; some of us light a cigarette. A
deep mist on the surface; the land pulls out. A dull mist comes
rolling from the west; this is our imaginary adulthood. A glaze has
lifted; it is a delusional space. A great dew; we spread ourselves
sheet-like. A keen wind; we're paper blown against the fence. A little
checkered at 4 pm; we dribble estrangement's sex. A long, soaking
rain; we lift the description. A ripple ruffles the disk of a star; contact
thinks. A sharp frost and a night-fall of snow; our mind is a skin. A
slight cloud drifts contrary to the planet; the day might be used
formally to contain a record of idleness. A slight storm of snow; our
prosody flickers. A solid bluish shadow consumes the day; we think
about synthetics in the night. A soul-thrilling power hovers; we drink
it back lustily. It is the exchange of our surplus. A very great tide;
lurid conditions enter as fact. A very wet day for it; we loathe and
repeat and suckle our sentimentality. April has never lost its leaves;
our heart is both random and arbitrary. At sunset red and hazy; we
seduce the permanence. At times moderate becoming good; we'll be
voluptuously poor. Begone! facilitates our appearance. We go inside
rapture. It is our emotional house. We furnish forth some cake.
Brilliant; equilibrium speaks mysteriously through our larynx.
Checkered blue; appetite will be more likely. Cheerful, tender, civil,
lilac colours; we anticipate the never-the-less. Clear blue but
yellowish in the northeast; we sit and explore. Clouded toward the
south; we will not be made to mean by a space. We'll do newness.
Crickets accumulate; our expression of atmosphere has curious
intentions. We also do decay. Dusk invades us; the description itself
must offer shelter. No gesture shuts us. Each leaf's a runnel; the
struggle is not teleological. We break the jar, smack it down. Soul
spills all over-- cyprine. Every rill is a channel; our shelters are
random. Every surface is ambitious; we excavate a non-existent
period of the human. Everything is being lifted into place. Everything
is illuminated; we prove inexhaustibility. Far into the night an infinite
sweetness; beyond can be our model. Forget the saltiness; we tear the
calendar of bitterness and sorrow. Here a streak of white; there a
streak of dark; we pour the word-built world. In April as the sun
enters Aries, the clouds are gold and silver dishes; we make idleness
as real as possible. Isn't the hawk quite beautiful hanging quite still
in the blue air; we dig deep into our conscience. It all reflects the
sky; we disintegrate our facade. It anticipates the dry scent of autumn;
we anticipate the same. Our emotions are slow enough to be accurate.
It emits a tremulousness; we have nothing concrete. It falls in broad
flakes upon the surface; we take account of all that occurs. It goes
all soft and warm along the way; we are almost cozy. Is it nice having
our ticket handled? Like feminine and serious sensations of being
gulped. It has soaked through; we have sheer plastic virtuosity. We
flood upwards into the referent. It is a protestant warmth; we reverse
it. It is an illusion; we aren't afraid. We settle the fast depth. It is
clothed in such a mild, quiet light; we intrude on the phenomenology.
It is eight o clock; casual men shut the architecture. It is intrinsically
bright; it is our middle class. Don't notice if we open the life; it is
literally the wreck of jewels. It is moody, vigorous and dry; we hear
the transparency. A seeing can no longer list. It is no longer the end
of a season, but the beginning; the buildings make holes in the sky.
What must be believed? We go backward and forward and there is no
place. No shape is for later. It is obscurely flawed, but it really isn't.
It is still daylight outside; kick out the lid. It is sun smoke; we
put on grease. Our sex is a toy weather. It is the clear, magnificent,
misunderstood morning; we pick up the connections. Toy weathers
mean less than we assume. It is the regular dripping of twigs; we deal
with technical problems. It is too strange for sorrow; we tried to make
the past. It leaves behind fragments; we repeat the embarrassment. It
screams sensation; we must be vast and blank. It seems moister; the
webbing folds. It strives to pierce the fog which shuts the view; we
flow through the loops. We duck into the tint. It translates lucretius
with a high rate of material loss. It turns decorative; we waste
everything. It used our organs; shame was passed along. It was
inevitable; we are self-regulating. It washes our beach; we resist
agency. We are not free to repudiate. It will go on diffusing itself
without limit; our nourishments are never habitual. It will never rain;
we feel bad about certainty. It's a fine flowing haze; we don't know
light. It's a tear-jerker; we practise in attics. It's almost horizontal;
we seem to go into words. It's an outcropping of cumulus; we are a sum
of inescapable conditions. It's been a long season; we moot the respon-
sibility. It's brisk; we suggest a new style. It's cold in the shade; we
rethink expediency. It's dark as us women; we keep up with accident.
The hill slopes up. Our pearls broke. We are watching ourselves being
torn. It's gorgeous; we accept the dispersal. It's just beginning; we
establish an obsolescence. It's petal-caked; flow implicates us. It's
so still; ease of movement is possible. It's very hot and fine; where
does this success come from? It's wild; culture will fit now. Its chilly;
we try to shape culminations. It's clear and windy and wakening; we
achieve an inconsistency. It's starting to melt; we wander, play and
sleep. Which is the surface? It's sulking behind blinds; our ideas are
utensils. What is beyond? Leaves shoot up; we should not remember it.
Light bounces from the clouds; we play at the shelter. What's memory?
Fat. Deluxe. Cheap. Listen to the pulsating leaves; everything we make
is thick, fat, deluxe, cheap. Look at the moon; we reassess the lifespan
of use. March fans it; the conversation is flaring. We're making sounds
of sincerity. Marvelous;. No sun shining; we feel there must be a world.
We avoid the duty of being. Not by so much so big a tide as yesterday;
conditions equal appetite. Not quite midsummer; we cannot know memory.
Now look; we embed ourselves in immateriality. Of course it rained! ;
we chuck gravitas. Pinkish-green, and grey with yellow tints; look at
the thin metaphor. Pockets of fog; compositions do desire. Pulsing
lights; our attention is glass. Rain pelts the glass; we seek to
produce delight. Skin hinges the light; this is a conceptual war.
Smoke ribbons up from the city; we are splendidly desolate. Snow
fills the footprints; we abruptly coincide with neurosis. Some tufts
are caught in the previously bare limbs; we develop the desire. Something
terrific is going to happen; we stick like belief. Space is quite
subdued; but not as a result of complacency. It is the great middle
diction of concupiscence. Speakable; utility. Spectacular; desolation.
Spring seems begun; we like bad palliatives. Storms do occur; manifestoes
are the opposite. That's right; disgust is fatal. Enough of the least.
Death is a content. The air seems flushed with tenderness; prognostics
give us logic. The atmosphere recedes; we simulate failures. The bay's
pretty choppy; we allow ourselves to be drawn in. The blue cleansed or
swabbed; we are not mimetic. We rhyme. The coldness is purifying; we
create an immanent disaster. We shorten the dark. The dark drinks the
light; we omitted the beginning. The day is longer now; we're fueled by
the thoughtless. The dry light has never shone on it; we excerpt effort.
The earth goes gyrating ahead; we frighten the strengths. The fading woods
seem mourning in the autumn wind; we don't regret error. It is our emotional
house. The fog is settling in; we're sardonic. The fresher breeze rustles
the oak; our treachery is beautiful. Pop groups say love phonemes. We
suddenly transform to the person. The hills fling down shadow; we fling
down shadow. The horizon is awkward; we fling down shadow. The horizon
melts away; this was the dictation. The ice cracks with a din; very
frustrating. The leaves are beginning; it unifies nothing. The light
lays intact and folded; we open and shout. The light seems whimsical;
it's techno-intellectual work. The light's so romantic; we permit the
survival of syntax. The little aconite peeps its yellow flowers; we
manipulate texture. The moon is faintly gleaming; we expose our insuffi-
ciency. Total insignificance of lyric. That's what we adore. The mountains
have vanished; our mind becomes sharp. The mountains unfurl long shadow;
ornament is no crime. The nightreading girls are thinking by their lamps;
we make use of their work. We cannot contain our pleasure. The rain
has loosened; we engage our imagination. The sentence opens inexpensively;
we imagine its silence. The shrubs and fences begin to darken; we are
deformed by everything. Therefore we're mystic. The sky is closing in;
we mediate an affect. The sky is curved downward; we desituate memory.
The sky is dominant; we lop off the image. We come upon our thought.
The sky is lusty; so are we. We prove inexhaustibility. The sky is mauve
lucite; we reduce it to logic. The sky is packed; it is ours. The sky
is thickening; we have been invented. We are the desuetude of function.
The sky's tolerably liberal; despite and because of the rhetoric. The
snowdrops are starting; we risk causing suffering. The snow going off;
by way of the idea. The songsparrow heard; our artifice collides. The
sound settles like jargon; we do not agree. The storm is a mass of
sound; we must go to the suburbs. The sun is just appearing; we cannot
sit waiting. The sun sucks up the steam; it is explicitly our preference.
The system shines with uninterrupted light; we generate limpid fact.
The systems revolve at an even pace; fear is not harmful. The time is
always still eventide; our language moves across. The trees are stripped;
foreground fiercely smashing the mouth. The trees look like airy creatures;
we'll say anything like speech. The wind has lulled; we're this long
voice under fluid. The wind has stripped some nearly bare; we demonstrate
abstinence. The wind hasn't shifted; we have shifted. The word double
is written on our forehead. The wind opens the trees; art is too slow.
The wind shifts from northeast and east to northwest and south; we cull
the obedience. The wind sounds like paper; our sex is no problem. The
elms are as green and as fresh as the oaks; we taste of aerial fluids
and drugs. There are curious crystallizations; we are the dream of
conflict. There goes the sun; we influence contingency. There is
something in the refined and elastic air; we step into the quorum.
They are quietly dissolved in the haze; we quietly erect this subject.
Thin, fleshy roots of light; we thicken to slang. This greyness is constant;
we withdraw unexceptionally. This is a cloudburst; no-one's turn is dwelling.
This somber drizzle is familiar; it's unbuilding pixels. This transparency
is necessary; there is no transgression possible. Those stupendous masses
of cloud! We furrow and sleek and fondle our sentimentality. Thunder in
the north; we enjoy our behaviours. Thunder, far to the south; habitual.
Today has everything; we are sick with sincerity. Transparent tissues
hover; authority flows into us. Try to remember the heavy August heat; we
cannot disengage our calculations. Under that rod of sky is our breath;
we don't understand love. Describe it again. Up goes the smoke quietly
as the dew exhales; it calls itself sadness. Pattern undercuts the slamming
heat; we speak into the dark and make corrections: Shadow for hour. Tantrum
for lyre. Lure for light. Rapture for kaput. For for five. Qualm for finger.
Bridge for door. Neap for note. Curious for lucid. Door for bridge. Feather
for Epsom. Minus for nimble. Parity for rapture. Plumb for addle. Rustic
for cunt. Note for iota. Item for opus. Rustle for campus. Augustine for
aconite. Similar for ribald. Firm for forsythia. Resplendent for respond.
Cause for quote. Oblique for oblique. Verb for flex. Superb obedience
really exists. When accuracy comes it is not annihilated; we're economical
with our sensation. Who has not admired the twelve hours? We offer prognostics.
Red sky at night, a warm arm across the pillow, within winter, but at its end;
you can anticipate the wind.