Time to put something on the canvas. Just some tuna birds, many of them leaning. The bazaar pumps a universe into view. I am feeling abstract. This causes resonance to arrive in the shape of a bubbly mind.
A trapeze swings in this hair I have on my head. It flavors push-ups with holes. A nailing inward can pull raspberries toward brightness. The palpable lyric of a creamy song murmurs exaltation. Euclid grows a new feeling in the interaction.
A penumbra agrees to envy eating. The farm is sticky, and spoons the bumps. The maple elevator pauses in concentration exhibiting imponderable peculiarities. There is joy in squeezing an accordion. A summer which calculus corners in Portugal.
Tin with wood for the oath drug. A spectral hive which keys the pulse. Energy’s philodendron hinting at rattles, and African spices. The new job requires metamorphism. Sorcery and letters. The tea describes heat with a tender science.
Oboe to burn with a ghost. Deliverance is almost confessed until the components are chained. There are wet paintings between that history. Binoculars stimulated by your mind jerked through a granite atmosphere. The shoulder is incidental to the spine, as are the wings, and perceptions are balls.
The infinite greeting of any ambiguity might be clearer in tilted bones. It steams in elemental Max Jacob. Transformations have machines for these vowels. Oppose the memorials. Peg the mountain in words to a beating heart.
Zinc begins the eyes. Know your events. A hugged honesty embarks on skulls. A cloud was that pushed despair. Its edge and structure exceeding the swallows inside its finger.
If the studio cracks at your lines, the swans will call in hunger. There is invention, or cooking, imposed on declension. Virtuosity would pull it for harmony, but the blood is clumsy. A crow in syntax that heaves lace in hibachi handsprings. Grebes which comply in sunlight.
The vowel is emphatic in its engine of soup. Envy is expansive in the way it contracts, a paradox visiting itself, solving its sheer rescue with language. By that I mean nails. A knot of chiaroscuro muscle curled in red. The parable earns a simulacrum then.
The details push themselves between these words. Hunger dwells on the canvas to feature its open throats. A book bulb washes the maneuver. This gluttonous table and its incongruities misinterpret their surface as struts. An orchard pushed out of summer and puffed up the escalator concludes the gantry, a Braque buckled to the boat.
Form can sanguine to sandstone. Experience the opium aggressively merely to caulk its indication. A plot of exhibition will soothe that flow. This alters fog when the others are lost. Space itself is ugly the piano serves to excite.
Time chains itself behind a brush. Its components pulse charcoal, or cars. The spoon of paint lags after construction. There is, meanwhile, a stove to assemble by spirit. Oysters the cartwheels put between the eyes.
The chronicle gets thrilling in its view of heat. It feathers, or presses, those inside. Cézanne carries introversion to a maximal wallet of ocher and brown. The bleeding is fenced, then initiated by swimming. Frame and delectation are therefore a harness to posterity.
Sugar is quixotic, a trapeze for Bach. A skin of bashful Byzantine anticipates sound. The spoon is long and riveting. Now beams the syntax. It cries for suppleness and roads.
The garnish on beauty is embryonic. Engine for a machine vertiginously spinning this collar stud. Sheer being exceeds the silt. Buffalo Bill and a hungry compilation sipping structure from a basket of drawers. The glockenspiel is shaken by an oath of cardboard.
Heft imposes a severity on the flavor of today’s gravity. Later, January will pull an icicle out of a stillborn desire, the way it always has, always does. Butter is just another box for yellow. Thought turns green, and crackles, blossoming into visibility. The mirrors meet our eyes in a feather of rain.
Into the Cold and Dark
17 hours ago