The day toughens when it bends with mirrors. The border is completely bullets. How do we break on through to the other side? If it rains a holiday on the sculpture we will come to our whiskers in pride and ribbons. We will cross at dawn. Your mind seems bruised with surprise. Well, it’s only natural. A gun bangs and a noodle whirls. This leaves more space for Monday. Only globules of this show that an enclave can be a thing of pain, including infection, chaos, and a blister broken by a mahogany shave. The garments are by Bach. Blood the story is shattering into words. The rustle of leaves in this anthology writhe in deeper attraction. Clasp the steam that is enriched by heaven. It exceeds communion. Bend your subtleties in exhibition. The raspberry is so improbably spatial that it swims in itself. There are now more mirrors, each with that focused ultramarine brain, and snow between loaves of pumpernickel. The dawn comes in daubs haunted and serious, like a human being or something. You know? Like an odor with heft and touch. We crave the push of ourselves into radical ramification. Pumpernickel in its convocation with life and its balanced burdens. Ingredients obtrude into antiquity. This means that to consider a moose as a form of hinge enriches ocher. Being examines its blisters, which, being such, do no injury to iron. This is eager to be at you. The desk, treading in its supposition, is flexing a leg to cylinder Apollinaire up to your willow, which has begun to take form as a monument or helicopter. The tonic is as the heart agreeing to tide pool its subtleties of artery and vein. The muscle of it spits goldfish to such pungency that life seems unprecedented in its deliverance. Take the highway to the end of the night. There stands Jim Morrison. His ghost. His voice. His coordinates, which are glimpsed with emotion through the mahogany of France to the syntax of crows, where it is then imitated by a simmering ultimatum, framed in coagulant blood, like the horizon. An enigmatic Mediterranean word echoes subversion in a language which breaks alpaca into its necessary anthology of bubbling syllables. Umbrella bones fall like wheels through the atmosphere for a bug. Its massive roots have the pasting of heaven. The Jolly Green Giant cleans his dish, or spoons it over an obscure papier collé clapper which is but a batch of tea. The present is a tense that a Hindu throws into a blue emotion, a puddle from Rio Tinto which develops an echo. I was lost until I came upon this throbbing Braque made of lips and fingernails. Quest combines the gift of energy with coffee because what the passion moistens is a garden. There is a bug there which is an abstraction boxing its way to forty inches of mutation to run a destiny. And a spectrum explodes so that you could fluff coal into willow, or go home and write a poem. The daylight, stabbed by pines, haunts everyone’s ambivalence. The sag has been shrewdly studied. The strain is a description of oval, but the Louvre abhors to put itself in a sweat for it. This is because it’s upside-down and the metaphors are hectic with eggnog. The result of this is bubbles.
Gate of Gates?
2 days ago