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.