Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum, bolo intact. 
Rain twisting, “tensile lines.” So wave back, s’up?  
We’re at the prelims of collapse, I suppose.   
 
I’m on the outs with prelims, down with the innards of English.  
Down with variations as conjecture too. In fact   
 
I’ve been breathing without conjecture too long,  
restrained in my language on earth.