In this moon diagram a resistant fragrance was my last fill of fish sticks. Oh you know, unhappy

we supplemented photographs for subject matter, I recall.  
Garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to the abandoned parks).   
 
It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity learning the moon’s mother tongue, long vowels   
 
impelled by shore conditions, birds in flight. Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it. Everyone   
 
knows that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell, yet one man’s voice is handsome, calm, also scrappy.   
 
Further down the pillar, a kimono has been entered, explaining prehension tongue in cheek.