You and I devised robust edits to my thought while my so-named public face made a living,
almost kidding and choosing your chest, shoulders and hands over laws of physics. What kind of prose government overthrows dabbling more lightly?
Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse. 
(Blouse and sex are off the same pile.)

At this point I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling an urgency in ideas. Menu: 
We live in a debt growing country. Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.