A trivalent bond forms at birth that delays our death.

There are two ambient music cartels as well — both striking poses with all their operatic powers. De rigueur for now is writing over known injury to outrank others in the trivalence of thieves. I won’t do your religion, good day.

Just piano and voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of moods dedicated to each of four graves.

I wish you had taken that job singing of thingness.  
Even so, if you could eat only one food for life, what would it be? “Take notes,” you called out. You were holding back first throbs as you forced his from the inside.     

I miss the walled city where an operator like him looks up when you arrive at this next step . .   

Try to remain calm. I’m going to talk you down. 

We’ll take the stairs; the elevators refuse to go with operators in them. (Ok, you there? Bye.)