Song in the prime of summer:

On the closing date, only a lumpy scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under pressure. Not our roles either to
fill the marsh in, lengthening Schubert’s menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition. Gay

alert: The wetlands work it through. Remember. Words we had and didn’t have consequences. Learned good is bad is good to forget.

It appears unseemly as well as unspeakable for libido to constitute knowledge modules, aimlessly blowing in summer’s good news of constant unitary joy...

tho they with winter meet...