Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure
discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution,
honing you / shaving one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I pray
while cashing in analytics but I’m alive
(lifting one datum off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold), no one strain.


Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (and an ear for sex).

A gridded binary has decided most perfectionism is out of step while we act as aficionados of the vulgar to provoke both gendered nature. 

Those organized under our strong gestures shall triumph. Binary frames know this and tap out our communication, a dissonance born of necessity. Our dialog reflects gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence. Oo oo it’s discovered her voice.

Self determination for all in distress —

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)
Gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey I love you naked —
We went from one thing to another, came back.

Buds to blossoms.

Not a koan
(how could

it
be un-impaled?)

— Religious type, agnostic,
both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced
off a nipple. It was the middle way,
enlightenment so simplified, you can spell it out.
Lightning over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be so

as Buddha and Buddhists are only disparities.

Credo: You’re good doing this.
Just
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Misery looks a better way. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!
After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for expressing enzymes with love.
We never saw you before.

Burn,
Suffering coincidence.. you’re leaning into wailer muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

One to admire oneself, one’s distinction.
And there are a lot more ones ahead.

A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do altogether


Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified, not impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For a drive, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)
We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore..

We defied the polls and voted against our interests.
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with all the others
While sadness is a public health scourge.
So protesters are hired to raise contentment ratings.
To deconflict our strategy from human loss
In no time we put six 27-to-46 under water
Then we ate cupcakes. Impression seems

Today one can eat excellently here and tempered bluegrass friends visit.
They are real actors, not people.

The focal point of early versions is the entity with many comforts and drills. Isn’t that a calling?
*
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Scent of lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.

Full employment. Fully refrained.
We like new taps on the shoulder in a way when they leave imprints. How I graduated from this shame, this ceaseless loss of pride

in the going battle between the sexes? (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? Or I’ll trade you. I have a canoe for an alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With various hats, I’m reaching out to anticipate mind control as disingenuous.

Rhetoric like this often dies off.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination
for walking strong will accelerate, wild and tranquil,
ruthless in a sense, boundless layers set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

No tweeter wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal.

And we think it could be worse.

During the break we reached an agreement,
so the ham’s anger has hatched.. while no choice
enables the passing tourney among tense Fu dudes
to nuance 3-in-1 innocents to proceed.

Rhapsodic justice is made to look cautionary. It’s easier to have a set of rants ready to throat than break our rules and brag too much, too enormous a bliss.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the depths.
Discourse in a hammock, wanting to be nearer. Caution preserves protective access
to the core. The equation can be reduced to healing power = unhealthy options = smoking, on fire.

Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the place you and I detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a basal rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, aching to blather.

Breathtaking.

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. Sore thumbs. No more tv. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t erase. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which touch management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.

A blue feeling about a sweetheart is breaking over the lazy and dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. Ideas with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with blasts from space, our fond way in,
praising doom on our own dime.

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your eyes from posterity. Where your eyes go is the whole body cool from so many substitutes for meditation we can’t breathe.

I promised you a ham 4 quilting bombast.

You live within politics and practice warfare
to engage another’s psyche, smiling, you blow yourself up
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.
A headboard with no utility other than book nooks.
Can we cut to the scary part?

Materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever, sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling optics in dissolved attitudes behind all the good times 4-ward.

Despairing of applied animal movements within self regard, “the self-valuable word” is embedded in instrumental discourse. Bob Perlman maps, among other things, Quintilian’s rhetoric, noting key components, meaning, clarity and tasteful adornment or decoration (“Words Detached from the Old Song and Dance”).

Meaning and clarity are fair game for Rob Fitterman: “weeds we may not always / have emptied this meaning for / a top-growth peel-back of another.”


When it comes to weeding and adornment in poetry, which involve making sense of / sense in any alteration of literal expression (via figures, other prosodic devices), Fitterman is an advanced horticulturalist. With 1-800-Flowers, Fitterman smartly “updates” sources for Louis Zukofsky’s last completed poem, 80 Flowers, a construct that “takes to new extremes of density Zukofsky’s methods of composition by quotation, transliteration, and compression” (Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge).

Fitterman replenishes the grounds with inventory of similarly conflated devices, writing in two sections “About” and “Through” Zukofsky’s work. Fitterman frames Zukofsky’s as “constrictive verse” that indeed gets “driven” by inventory, while Fitterman’s own lyric comprises mixed inventories within a discourse hybrid, an essay in verse, substantiation of his exemplary reading, that is, his generatively engaging Zukofsky. More splendid, Fitterman fulfills the half audible invitation within Zukofsky’s poetry and poetics, joining Zukofsky Ltd whose biz ethos is “precise information... thinking with the things as they exist” inside a recontextualized (if not continuous) present in which Fitterman fixes “new meanings of word against word” (Prepositions).

[...]

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
Am thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further or some alternative interpretive search worked up into a deep steam of exploitative algorithms against enmity and death —

It once read, in criminal matters, you’re my business.

“I heard talent & beauty, money come with their own harsh light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to addictive capital, arresting.” Leaving you. Gasp.
Is this documentary or did I make it up? —“when you remember wit & austerity read each other perfectly from the start — seems mathematical to think about transmissions of all kinds favorably.” Tho programmers have a fiercely vandal-like approach to appraisal under uncertainty.

So this is an edit, keeping watch. “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, restless pulse.”

fot Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical —
Two good words. And too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

I’ve got goals. I’m an anthologist of agitprop. I think it’s colossal. It gives me a boost as a lifelong cold intellectual. Fun is fun, but not when friends are struggling then flattened intentionally. An observation from Succession.

Lately and I don’t like it, we’re out on the town looking for the perfect spot to brush up on the visual grammar of the assault on fun deep.

(There is too much to get back to.) The hilly, glittering lawns on this side of the divide are actual circumstances at twilight I prefer to canvass and peruse for my oenology Ph.D. I'm looking for novel jitters from others. There aren't any, so it's out on the town looking for that perfect spot in lovers’ eyes.

I sleep all night, chastened by my agenda. Like everyone else I’ve got business waiting and I guess new places to run over. Tender hair sprouts with sweat, sill alive, pierced to the root by tamarisk and peyote flowers at table, ample liquor and song. The sweetness outside not wavering in rain to any rational depth... I’ve got bed then business waiting in my crosshairs.

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent. How drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting I’m oblivious.

Your face, the trains I ride, it’s all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

Come midnight Mr Deadpan had a big smile. Anytime I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as a frog, silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That way.

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet with a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the grey sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more,
Going to be here as long as it takes.

Let’s see what we have at the top of the poetry game.
There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples direct voter behavior.

Joe is sleepy-crazy. Play along or rue it.
You guys go ahead.

I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk this way.

Outdoors I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage.

Director’s cut.

There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men & women are deaf to their ruin

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.

Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty
Once. What was that all about?
I know where I am going gawky, rattling my cage.

What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ sentences, I am anonymous either way.

Thank you, cohorts, for cartoons and commissioned videos shrieking with what I must bury.

Levitation in words has to be modulated. (The levitators wanted this.) Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling indecisiveness, the masked hostility of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats, multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold.
Then we go off a notch keeping our eyes shut.
I miss you doesn’t change anything. I want you happy but be on time for signing our sublet pledge.

Don’t we have a duty to criticize?

Gavel to gavel hours and hours turning the page.
What we inkeep converts to personality and stunt-craft.
What we have to do and say are open discourse, what W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor.
Please, have your way, fleets of stars, your options. Or have your composite gods do it for you.

(This soon after his last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats? or gods?) (Maybe not.
It’ll frighten no one into temperance.) And some of us are too polite to save the day.
But not all of us will unfriend you now or any time.

It’s natural, all a picnic in the wilderness.

The wilds... on all floors.

Clay-toned physiques
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another

— everybody under an influence indoors, thoughts that are filthy.

A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, rotating in
reverse as if knowing how to purify their offspring & manage forever
in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting ..

You may notice I’m on the side of zest, the construction of meaning in your arms,
and oomph — one long eyebrow (for wingspan), fuzzy and continuous with the present that has no purpose, just falsetto in your eyes.

Admiral, there’s a figment in my soup. While the quartet’s on a mission, higher
up, the soup stands in doodles / parts of speech we can void
as we learn to operate thoughts like fluorescent tubes that meet
over magnets. Tubes lit amid disentanglements.
My views are mostly leisure-loving.

There has to be someone in charge.

There’s a container for every passion.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, its contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..

It? I guess us.

For practice, renditions of this altogether. Take care, and take some time, since to censure another’s progress is groaning effrontery and off the mark, much like not approving a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back to the next marathon. Likewise, avoid rejecting criticism, keep your catnip under wraps, knock down with a glance, nod, and inspire small talk while keeping everything surveilled. Mad Thief and you look great together!

Rightist verse, M.R.I:

It’s meta-conscious. On the surface it projects text as selfie, “poking” materials, assemblies, audience. Selfies however adhere to reticent schedules.

Pedagogic systems administer exams of dominant samples. Absorbing their data is high achievement if it’s duplicable.

Conservative epistemology’s key reinforcements:

It’s all about people acting in a way.
Maintaining a skillsets bias.
Honoring calculable hierarchies

I have no name now but my ass is all into listening. 1st Crusoe, the boss, and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turned into a lost colony as the fete dispersed for seminars on eon comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

While we’re at it we’ll talk about process. Then add neural linguistic products with teal / aubergine edges to render our new squeeze pages. This, this is the ballad of how your bespoke guest room became the office.

Ringing again — a prism on top where you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and revilingly askew. If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll have to skip lunch. I told you not to watch.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

I’m seated back in my studio, dressed in un-despairing perceptions (and reading) of what won’t be contained — o Swami, nothing to discredit nor disbelieve.

My U.S. idiocy pledge — I hereby ...
I’m holding hot and cool scrims of mist and water balloons floating over a lap pool, views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with metal rock, waking in hazy brightness without a clue how we got here.

I’d be lying if I said we aren’t criminals.

There’s too much junk in triangles. (Composers have to know this.)
That’s how I got to live alone anticipating mind control as
disingenuous. As

my own job conposer I got a full canoe of alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cool if they’re your own.

The smitten dissipate swarming with pleasant memories.

At arm’s length..
There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in one plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right, unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a human rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as Lars’ necklace, a burning space distinguished by diffuse vitality.

What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” Mr Dolt says. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how deeply they cut.

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”

In this chapter I fear the sarcasm.

You & I wonder about summer’s eternal 
possessions, the buds, shade & a day if we could see 
staying chaste .. it’s on the house.  
Feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold.   
 
In those same terms there’s too hot  
a reliance on eking a living making out   
Optimizing the center where death dies.  
It will take more than a single changing course  
to snatch life from time, breathing it in & out if we could see. 

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for a sacrament.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.
Somewhere, who’s a sociopath?

Finalists, top achievers have quit general practice.

This is not a means test. It’s blues. But who can tell if it goes well. 
We’ll leave it at that  

in case there are higher trending hoaxes.
At least the place was democratized even with trial mechanisms.   
 
The mechanisms blow decorum of law...  
Also, it’s beautifully easy for you, suddenly, brief minutes from now, to have less to eat to soften the last interruption keeping the consonant hoopla around your throat.. as often predicted, that.  
 
Simple to say. But how many spirituals of parallel scenery can we communalists invoke?

No one would presume elements were strung together out of desperation and a deeply
ingrained exposition to de-mark the unknown. Much as technology funds science, random
sentiment attaches to most liberal singularities.

Compassion goes into theorems.
Maybe I can talk to your teachers. I can debate with them.
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. No one’s there. While others don’t hear clearly
when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of empathy.

He called the universe a positive word. 
 
Reading and living are continuous variables 
That ontologically under-simulate his few senses.  
He should be furious w/ the authentic world w/ dogfood dishes. Be  
Angry at literal keyholes, too, w/ their conservative  
Counterviews to earnest alignment as his new parts pull up,  
A parallel prowess of floating unquietly  
Into apothegms, into sidesteps of fine voice.  

Keenau is still guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life.

The question of blood flow takes 8 more lives
rising or not to non occasions w/ pretty good yoga probabilities.
It’s said thorough life study is shaped by diacritical time taking
steps to parse one’s appetite and hostility..

There are quite a few newer injunctions

for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting:
& moving against meows
while nobody wins in a debate over non or not dissemblance.

We just saw (a few feet minutes from now) 
your address changed. We could have done it differently before  
you discovered our abuser charts; the parent company was yours before you took over.  
 
You’re not going to be delirious, meow, are you? 
Just for a now... good for you  
taking me from sleep where I rewrite chain letters you refuse to answer...   
 
Good for you!

Any rule violates sovereignty. This speech pattern has been expanding without genetic engineering.
And the polls are now tightening.

Your proof is some topic you can take indoors to vote for anyone with no experience. Try.
Give it a chance until late afternoon. Even interrupted our conversation never ends — for
You. For you’ll be taken up on your offer.

My love as a fever costume, inky as hell on opium.
Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

Hell, like innocence, wrongly revealed, concerns ethics, not intent.
Adoration had had a lilac scent. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding character, even when an act of apprehension remains
Deferential. One fifth of known marriages are conditions in such unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
To empower mergers & exchange?

No foes, no spite — 
Sing: Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment cut back! Getting 
Back there uproots a retro series, exalted then stiffened into parody.. 

Reminding my love of a few contingencies we picked up from a tray 
Of bright boomerangs that tantalize in what’s feasible, wanting nil and showing 
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.

Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio”
I am touched by quantum perpetuity and everyone who once lived,
lives now or is about to live,
softest jazz, lower right, someone’s lips moving up, down,
talking over adult computation. X’s naive split mirror interference, for example.

X’s book is staring out the window, saved-up.
Amusing I suppose.

X may have noticed I write over your first-born face, in a kind of praise, 
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of primrose choosing you 
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for my dear, dear heart X, Fidelio.

So a redraft morphs into an urgent inquiry tho tentative. Putting it in a memo, we sleep with a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas but you joined the service, expecting these long hours. You know how we leverage missing you, talking about it. Happiest procrastinating, I’m indexing suspicion and objurgating..

Publicity is the soul of justice. 
That’s a great question.

Social progress is in hot water. Talk
of art goes for cheap and too far in other directions.

Finalists quit general practice — their art converts to cottage ministries  
with little or no honor system.

Nothing much about jazz dance, for one - it’s almost curtains
for the prom fitting, a horrible hot mess.  
The shortest path ignited by havoc,
overworked and exhausted ex-employees.  But crowning the present,
Thin dancers are perpetual winners I guess.  
I wager at least we scarf their uneaten take-out on the table. Slashed 40%!

Feeling comfort in disruption is one tall order. Together, you and I define an entire affability arc of ironic laughter, a genial series in slippery zoning disputes: Two feelings or more (identical in all respects).

Abstract attitudes are buried below our strip-down (the whole of reality) to relatively unspeaking, as tho history was a full set of realities without language.
Body-snatching, the third point at hand is you and I have to enjoin different orders, since our lives are directionless in Cambridge. Good night, ensign.

Good night to expose an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent a few exchange elements, remaking spatial morality into a closed agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.

Modesty is unimpressive in itself.  
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore.   
And there’s a struggle to housesit mucho information. Try: Oil, vinegar, mistakes...  
 
become defects in the emulsion. While pairs of prime numbers have different sapors, pots, odd sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving into a brawl, tugs of randomness, others’ chaos, as well a gaggle of self-similarities... can’t make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I’ve highlighted this one, Apollonian male familiarity that will never feel safe, topped with a Mainline ranch dressing fabricked in aromas of surfboard polycarbonate.

(Someone asked me to float a tremor phonemic as old style bait.)    
  
That’s like the sound and meaning dust flecks skim from the top while our so-named public face makes its living, almost kidding and choosing your chest, shoulders and hands to precipitate full clemency.   
  
What kind of government overthrow takes bicameral 
maneuvers more lightly?

Combustion and dust spores filling avenues becoming identical, your honor. People borrow shelter in ice cream convenience stores, then bolt for the subway, running with asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. New affections. Highly recommended. 

Spacetime.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light conscientiously make a big deal taking us home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. just what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Quote: Passing the “casting
of cities,” thinking past us — end quote.

I’m never sure. I’m still a novice,
numb to knowing what conscience is.

...pleasure before horticulture, that your box?
For today’s scientist, boxed fits of modesty are supposed to impress, yet their affect is sweeping, swept up or vacuumed from the shrunken floor.
A year of modesty and you switch into an autodidact of excess. We’re pre-empiricists, now, viewing my theory as particles of pink turtleheadflower, Joe-Pye weed, twinleaf, wild bergamot, beardtongue, foaming down in yellow violet.

From here: Modal syllogisms are sanctioned conjecture. So modest one, buzz me up while disquiet grows cutthroat. We’re our own custodians.

Solitary dark 
the air pushes                       ..aside   
 
— tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette  
 
— the Demon Puff in his plumage / seafaring language.  
I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.  
When struck a lightning rod emits a ballet of dust and solution, a chemical isomer that goes itself and turns over in our thoughts as a hint there’s commotion in the back of what matters. What matter is. Who is loved.

Informality keeps the hosts busy — maximum stress & refined inelegance.

Doo-wop’s creepy; let us through.
Factor in visual plug-ins for calisthenics, just a load off the mirror.   
 
Artisanal resonance turns into reflections out of which you finger-point to the horizon,  
 
magnified and now askew, flaking off. So note what happens. 
Yeah? A soar sport. 
 
Soar and insert the bonus and exchange — what do you know!  
Tongues, clean up to your neck — a radiant  
 
pattern, your drain pipe, a phenomenal circumstance that can end  
in a draw sustained by   
getting up, stretching for another solar system.

Granted on a more personal note, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic for one more time.
The place was firmly democratized, sir. The beginning seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this. Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush sopping in devotion to their next decimal of the scenery. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when.

Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems: Siphon starters. Add the rank  
 
I confer to the next available beauty, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until our love goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of free irony.

The work-together bellows forges random events from a momentary lineage we’d overlook otherwise. No line proof required, especially. A range of conversations whooped into uncluttered opinions, dedicated sentences. 
 
A flaming kitchen to heat pizza.  
(more below...) 
We’re imprisoned to reach our markets — 
 
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in taut outfits and at the top of their game, which is often synchronized, perforated by breaking news. No naming names, please.

Beside Panker observation tower, from which one can see in good weather the far over Baltic to Danemark, the Forestry House Hessen Stone lies.
Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those evergreen shivering now under the weather thrill to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembled.

In former times vertikal foresters got their Ausbesserungen with sailors for a Senkrecht. From that forest messengers with sailors on Hessen Stone glow.

Today one can eat excellently and jazz friends here come also.

I like it when prose or song digs in and flails. 
( It’s that emotional core between personal and professional.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. And sun.  
 

That about covers it.  
Got to run, prose.