A Story

It was a story I felt I had to tell but there were so many ways to tell it. It didn't seem to matter in which order I placed the words the meaning never became any clearer. I tried to tell it this way and I tried to tell it that but the sense of it remained elusive slipping through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp. If only I could penetrate beyond the words and reach to the real meaning of the sentences tumbling from my subconscious. It was a dream. I tried to recall the place the time unknown. It never became clearer. The more I attempted to remember the details the more they eluded me. I was in a building, was it an apartment, some living space, a bedroom perhaps, was I alone, on a bed, was there another with me, a woman, were   we   entwined   flesh  on  flesh   like  the   words interweaving in and out of each other making phrases, sentences,paragraphs. Was it prose was it poetry the way we moved together  like similes and metaphors, limbs confused and coiled. There was a window, I remember that much, an open window. It was spring a warm breeze brushed past the light curtain to caress our skin,your pale skin your eyes dark and wide black hair falling over your face. Over your shoulder I see the moon a full and solemn moon casting shadows across the room, a framed canvas of firmament the night sky contained by a window. I hear sounds from below we must be several floors up the way the sounds of the street echo in the distance we must be in a city. I hear a siren. You whisper in my ear I fail to catch the words they drift like leaves falling like a snow storm  snippets  cut  up  sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, syllables folding in on each other creating a new language and new meanings our caresses

creating new ways of communicating. What am I saying? What do I mean? We are here together here and now isolated by our own minds I wish I could say what was on my mind I wish I could make you understand I desire clarity I desire an end a definitive conclusion. But wait, I see the same scene now from an alternate angle, I am no longer myself with you I am another watching two people embrace in a hotel room escaping in each others' bodies, hiding  from   their   everyday  existence the   mundane routine of basic survival a primal urge to liv she screams a passionate scream of life denial of death recognition of mortality she sees that all must end there is no beginning and there will be no end except for us here and now. We are born and we die of this we can be certain but the rest how can we know I think therefore I am I think therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell stories we want to transcend our own existence outlive ourselves by leaving something behind some marker some evidence that we were other than the memories of those who loved us. In death we find peace truth  beauty the ambition of the artist  the  aspiration of  the  poet. The romantic  soul believes that in poetry lies truth, that truth  and beauty are interchangeable. If it is beautiful then it must be true. But  if  beauty  is  subjective then  truth  also  must  be subjective. How does this help with our story? What can the two  lovers lying on a hotel  bed tell  us about the fundamental nature of things? What can a dream tell us of waking life? What can a story no matter how it is told and in whatever order we place the words tell us of the deepest meaning of our existence. Listen closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt I had to tell but there were so many ways firmament of the night sky contained by a window. I hear to tell it. It didn't seem to matter in which order I placed the sounds from below we must be several floors up the way the words the meaning never became any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of the street echo in the distance we must be in this way and I tried to tell it that but the sense of it remained city. I hear a siren. You whisper in my ear I fail to catch the elusive slipping through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp. Words they drift like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. If only I could penetrate beyond the words and reach to the cut up sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, real meaning of the sentences tumbling from my syllables folding  in  on  each  other  creating  a  new  language subconscious. It was a dream. I tried to recall the place and new meanings our caresses creating new ways of time  unknown. It never  became clearer. The more  I communicate. What am I saying? What do I mean? We are an attempt to remember the details the more they elude here together here and now isolated by our own minds. I wish me. I was in a building, was it an apartment, some living I could say what was on my mind I wish I could make you space, a bedroom perhaps, was I alone, on a bed, there you understand I desire clarity I desire an end a definitive other with me, a woman, were we entwined flesh on flesh conclusion. But wait, I see the same scene now from  the  words interweaving in and out  of each other making an alternate angle, I am no longer myself with you I am other phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Was it prose was it poetry watching two people embrace in a hotel room escaping in the way we moved together like similes and metaphors, each others' bodies hiding from their everyday existence the limbs confused and coiled. There was a window, I remember mundane routine of basic survival a primal urge to liv she knew that much,an open window. It  was spring a warm breeze screams a passionate scream of life denial of death brushed past the light curtain to caress our skin, your pale recognition of mortality she sees that all must end there is no skin your eyes dark and wide  black hair  falling over your  face beginning and there will be no end except for us here and over your shoulder I see the  moon a full  and solemn moon now. We are born and we die of this we can be certain but casting shadows across the room, a framed canvas of the rest how can we know I think therefore I am I think therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell stories. You whisper in my ear I fail to catch the elusive slipping. We want to transcend our own existence outlive ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp. Words they drift leaving something behind some marker some evidence like leaves falling  like snow storm snippets. If only we were other than the memories of those who loved us. To penetrate beyond the words and reach to the cut up death we find peace truth beauty the ambition  of  the   artist  sentences rearranged,  words alternating with  words, the real aspiration of the poet. The romantic soul believes that, in the meaning of the sentences tumbling from my syllable folding poetry lies truth,that truth and beauty are interchangeable folding in on each other creating a new language subconscious. If it is beautiful then it must be true. But what if beauty is a dream? I tried to recall the place and new meanings of our subjective then truth also must be subjective. How do these caresses  create new  ways of  time  unknown? It never helps with our story. What can the two lovers lying on a hotel become clearer? The more I communicate, what am I saying? Bed, tell us about the fundamental nature of things? What? What do I mean? We are an attempt to remember the details. Can a dream tell us of waking life? What can a story know? The more they elude here together here and now isolated by matter how it is told and in whatever order we place our own minds. I wish me. I was in a building,what is it that words tell us of the deepest meaning of our existence? Listen apartment, some living I could say what was on my mind closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt I had to wish,I could make you space, a bedroom perhaps, was I to tell but there were so many ways firmament of the night sky alone, on a bed,  there you understand I desire clarity I desire all contained by a window. I hear to tell it. It didn't seem to end a definitive other with me, a woman, were we matter in which order I placed the sounds from below we entwined flesh on flesh conclusion. But wait, I see the same,we must be several floors up the way the words the meaning scene now from the words interweaving in and out of each other never became any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of the other making an alternate angle, I am no longer myself with street echo in the distance we must be in  this  way  and  I tried   other   phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Was it  to  tell  it that  but  the  sense of  it remained city. I hear siren prose was it poetry watching two people embrace in a hotel room escaping in the way we moved together like similes and death we find peace truth beauty the ambition of the artist's metaphors, each others' bodies, hiding from  their  everyday sentences rearranged,  words  alternating  with   words,  the   real existence limbs  confused and  coiled.  There  was  an aspiration of the poet. The romantic soul believes in the window,I remember mundane routines of basic survival a meaning of  the  sentences tumbling  from  my  syllable folding primal urge to liv she knew that much, an open window. In poetry lies truth. That truth  and beauty are interchangeable was spring, a warm breeze screams a passionate scream of folding in on each other creating a new language life denial of death brushed past the light curtain to caress subconscious. If it  is beautiful then it must be true. But what of our skin, your pale recognition of mortality she sees that all beauty is a dream. I tried to recall the place and the new must end there is no skin your  eyes  dark  and  wide  black  hair  meanings are subjective then truth also must be subjective falling over your face beginning and there will be no end. How do these caresses create new ways of time unknown? Except for us here and over your shoulder I see the moon it never helps with our story. What can the two lovers lying on a full and solemn moon know? We are born and we die of this a hotel becomes clearer. The more I communicate, what am I? We can be certain but casting shadows across the room a saying - bed, tell us about the fundamental nature of things. Framed canvas of the rest how can we know I think therefore,what? What do I mean? We are an attempt to remember. I am I think therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell details. Can a dream tell us of waking life? What can the stories you whisper in my ear fail to catch the elusive knowing? The more they elude here  together  here  and  now  slipping.  We  want  to transcend our own existence outlive isolated matter by how it is told and in whatever order we ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp place our own minds. I was in a building, what is it? Words they drift  leaving something behind some marker that words tell us of the deepest meaning of our existence, some evidence like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. Listen apartment, some living I could say what was on my mind. If only we were other than the memories of those who loved mind closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt to penetrate beyond the words and reach to the cut up to wish I could make you space, a bedroom perhaps, was I to tell but there were so many ways firmament of the night to liv she knew that much, an open window. In poetry lies sky alone, on a bed, there you understand I desire clarity    and    truth.     That    truth     and    beauty    are interchangeable was spring desire all contained by  a window. I hear to  tell  it.  A warm  breeze screams a passionate scream of folding in to end a definitive other with me, a woman, were we each other creating a new language, life denial of death matter  in  which order I placed the sounds from below we brushed past the light curtain to caress the subconscious if it is entwined flesh on flesh conclusion. But wait, I see the same, beautiful then it must be true. But what of our skin, you are pale we must be several floors up the  way the  words the meaning recognition of mortality she sees that all beauty is a dream. The scene now from the words interweaving in and out of each other tried to recall the place and the new must end there  is no skin never to  become any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of your eyes dark and wide black hair, meanings are subjective other than to make an

alternate angle, I am no longer myself then truth  must also be subjective falling over your face. Street echo in the distance we must be in this way and I tried beginning and there will be no end. How do these caress other phrases, sentences,paragraphs? Was it to create new ways of time unknown? Except for us here but the sense of it remained city. I hear siren prose was it over your shoulder I see the moon it never helps with our poetry watching two people embrace in a hotel room story. What can the two lovers lying full  and solemn escaping in the  way we moved together like similes and the moon know? We are born and we die of this hotel, become death we find peace truth  beauty, the  ambition of the  artist is clearer. The more I communicate, what am I? We can be metaphors, each others' bodies, hiding from their everyday certainty but  casting shadows across the  room  a saying -  bed, sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, the real will tell us about the fundamental nature of things. Framed existence limbs confused and coiled. There was an aspiration, canvas of the rest how can we know I think therefore, what of the poet? The romantic soul believes that in the window we are an attempt to remember. I remember mundane routines of basic survival a meaning of thinking therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell  the  sentences tumbling  from  my  syllable folding primal urge details. Can a dream tell us of waking life? What can the stories you whisper in my ear fail to catch the elusive sounds from below, we brushed past the light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here together here and now caress the subconscious if it is entwined flesh on flesh slipping. We want to transcend our own existence and outlive conclusion. But wait,I see the same, beautiful then it must be isolated by matter how it is told and in whatever order we be true. But what of our skin, you are pale we must be ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp several floors up the way the words the meaning recognition of our own minds. I was in a building, what is it? Words of mortality she sees that all beauty is a dream. The scene drifts  leaving something behind some marker that words tell now from the words interweaving in  and out  of  each tied  to  the  deepest meaning of our existence,some evidence recalls the place

and the new must end, there is no other skin, like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. Listen,never become any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of your apartment, some living thing I could say what was on my mind. If eyes dark and wide black hair meanings are subjective only we were other than the memories of those who loved making an alternate angle, I am no longer myself, then truth  mind closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt must also be subjective falling over your  face. Street echo penetrates beyond the words and reaches to the cut up to wish the distance, we must be in this way and I tried beginning and could make you space,a bedroom perhaps, was I to  tell  but there  will  be no end. How do these caresses and other phrases, there were so many ways firmament   of  the   night  to   liv  she  sentences and paragraphs. Was it to create new ways of time? I knew that  much, an open window. In poetry lies sky alone, unknown, except for us here and but the sense of it on a bed,there you understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren prose, was it over your shoulder that  truth  and beauty are interchangeable, was spring desire to see the

moon, it  never helps with  our poetry watching two all contained by a window. I hear to tell it. A warm breeze, people embrace in a hotel room story. What can the two screams a  passionate scream  of  folding  in  to   end definitive lovers lying full and solemn escaping in the way we moved the other with me, a woman, we were each other creating new together like similes and the moon knows we are born and the language of life and denial of death matter in which order we die of this hotel become death we find peace truth  beauty the ambition of the artist is clearer. The more I grasp place several floors up the way the words communicate, what am I? We can be metaphors each meaning recognition of our own minds. I was  in  a  building,  others'  bodies  hiding  from  their everyday certainty, but what is it? Words of mortality she sees that all beauty is casting shadows across the room saying bed sentences dream. The scene drifts  leaving something behind, some rearranged words alternating with words, the real will tell us a marker that words tell now from the words interweaving about the fundamental nature of things. Framed existence and out of each tied to the deepest meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. There  was  an  aspiration,  canvas of  existence, some evidence recalls the place and the new must rest,how can we know, I think therefore what of the end, there is no other skin like leaves falling like a snow storm poet. The romantic  soul  believes that   in  the  window  we  are snippets. Listen,never become any clearer. I tried to tell it an attempt to remember. I remember mundane routines of sounds in your apartment,some living thing I could say basic survival, a meaning of thinking therefore  I don't know what was on my mind. If eyes dark and wide black hair meanings who I am. We want to tell the sentences tumbling are subjective, only we were other  than the memories, syllable folding  primal  urge details. Can a dream tell  us of those who loved making an alternate angle? I am no longer waking life. What can the stories you whisper in my ear fail myself, then truth mind closely. I want to tell you a story. To catch the elusive sounds from below we  brushed past the  story I felt  must also be subjective falling over your light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here together street echo penetrates beyond the words and reaches to here and now, caress the subconscious if it is entwined flesh cut up to wish the distance, we must be in this way and I on flesh slipping. We want to transcend our own existence try beginning and   could   make  you   space,  a    bedroom   outlives conclusion. But wait, I see the same, beautiful perhaps, was I to tell but there will be no end. Then it must be isolated by matter, how it is told in caresses and other phrases, there were so many ways whatever order we be true. But what of our skin,you are firmament of the night to  liv in sentences and paragraphs. Pale we must be ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond. Was it to create new ways of time? I knew that  much, an open window. In poetry lies sky alone, unknown, except for a marker that words tell now from the words here and but the sense of it on a bed, there interweaving about the fundamental nature of things. Understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren prose, was it framed existence and out of each tied to the deepest over your shoulder that truth and beauty are meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. There was an interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalled helps with our poetry watching two all contained by a place and the new must rest, how can we know, I think window. I hear to tell it. A warm breeze, people embrace, therefore what of the end, there is no other skin like leaves in a hotel room story. What can the two  screams of a passionate falling like a snow storm poet? The romantic soul believes a scream of folding in to end definitive lovers lying full and that in the window we are snippets. Listen, never become solemn, escaping in the way we moved the other with me,any clearer? I tried to tell it an attempt to remember. I woman,we were each other  creating  new  together  remembering  mundane routines of sounds in your apartment, similes and the moon knows we are born and the language of some living thing, I could say basic survival, a meaning of life and denial of  death, matter  in which order we die of  this thinking, therefore I don't know what was on my mind. If eyes hotel become death we find peace truth beauty the ambition dark and wide black hair meaning who I am. We want to tell of the artist clearer. The more I grasp place several floors the sentences tumbling are subjective only we were up the way the words communicate. What am I? We can be  other  than  the  memories syllable folding primal urge details, metaphors meaning recognition of our own minds. Can a dream tell us of those who loved making an alternative in a building, others' bodies hiding from their everyday angle? I am no longer waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty, but what is it? Words of mortality she sees that all whisper in my ears fail me,then truth and mind closely. I want beauty casting shadows across the room saying bed to tell you a story,to catch the elusive sounds from below sentences dream. The scene drifts leaving something behind, we brushed past the  story  I felt  must  also be  subjective, some rearranged words alternating with  words, the  real will falling over your light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here together street echo penetrates beyond with our poetry watching two  all contained by a place and words and reach to here and now caress the subconscious if the new must rest, how can we know, I think window. I hear it is entwined flesh cut up to wish the distance we must be in to  tell it. A warm breeze, people embrace therefore  what of this way and I on flesh slipping. We want to transcend the end, there is no other skin like leaves in a hotel room,our own existence tried beginning and could make you space, a story. What can the two screams of a passionate falling like a bedroom outlive conclusion. But wait,I see the same snow storm poet. The romantic soul believes a scream of beauty perhaps, was I to tell but there will be no end. Then folding in to the end definitive lovers lying full and that it must be isolated by matter  how it  is told  in caresses  and window  we are snippets. Listen,never become solemn and other phrases, there were so many ways whatever order we are escaping in the way we moved the other with me,any may be true. But what of our skin, you are firmament of the  night clearer. I  tried  to  tell  it  an  attempt  to  remember. I woman,to liv in sentences and paragraphs pale we must be.   We   were    each  other   creating   new   together remembering  ourselves  through     my  fingers  gliding beyond. Was it to create mundane routines of sounds in your apartment, similes and new ways of time? I knew that much, an open window. The moon knows we are born  and the  language of  some living poetry  lies sky alone, unknown, except for a marker that could say basic survival, a meaning of life and denial of words tell now from the words here and but the sense of it,death matter in which order we die of this thinking therefore on a bed, there interweaving about the fundamental nature I don't know what was on my mind. If eyes hotel become of things understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren death we find peace truth beauty the ambition dark and wide prose was it framed existence and out of each tied to the black hair meaning who I am. We want to tell the artist  over  your  shoulder that  truth   and  beauty  are clearer.  The  more  I  grasp  place  several floors  the sentences meaning of  our  limbs confused and coiled. There was a tumbling subjective other only we were up the way the interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as words communicate what I am. We can be other than the aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalled  helps  memories syllable folding  primal  urge details,  metaphors  meaning recognition  of  our  own

minds. Can a dream tell us conclusion. But wait, I see the same snow storm poet of those who loved making an alternative in a building, romantic soul believes a scream of beauty perhaps, was I to others' bodies hiding from their everyday angle? I am to tell but there will be no end folding in to the end no longer waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty, definitive lovers lying full and that it must be isolated by words of mortality  she sees that all whisper no matter how it is told in caresses and window we are snippets. My ears fail myself, then truth mind  closely. I  want  beauty to  listen, never  become solemn and other  phrases, they were casting shadows across the  room saying bed to  tell you so many ways whatever order we are escaping in the way we story. To catch the elusive sounds from below, sentences moved the other with  me, any may be true, but what of our dream? The scene drifts leaving something behind. Skin, you are firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it brushed past the story I felt I must also be subjective an attempt   to   remember.  To live in sentences  and rearranged words alternating with  words, the real will falling paragraphs pale we must be. We were each other creating over your light curtain to  knowing. The more they elude here new together  remembering ourselves through  my  fingers together  street  echo  penetrates beyond with our poetry gliding beyond. Was it to create mundane routines of sounds watching two all contained by a place and words and reach in your apartment,similes and new ways of time? I knew that to  here and now caress the  subconscious the  new  must  be  an  open window. The moon knows we are born and rest (how can we know?), I think  window. I hear it  is entwined the language of some living poetry lies sky alone, unknown, flesh cut up to wish the distance we must be in to tell it except for  a  marker  that  could  say basic survival a meaning of warm breeze people embrace therefore what of this way and life and denial of words tell now from the words here and but  I on  flesh slipping. We want  to transcend the end, there is no sense of it, death matters in which order we die of this other skin like leaves in a hotel room, our own existence tried thinking therefore on a bed, there interweaving about the beginning and could make you space, a story. What can the  fundamental nature  I don't  know  what  was on  my  mind? If  two screams of a passionate falling like a bedroom outlives eyes hotel understand I desire clarity and truth.  I hear siren death we find peace truth  beauty become solemn and other phrases, they were casting ambition dark and wide,prose was framed existence and shadows across the room saying bed to tell you, so many out of each tied to the black hair meaning who I am. We have ways whatever order we are escaping in the way we story. To want to tell the  artist  over  your  shoulder that  truth  catches the elusive sounds from below sentences move the beauty clearer. The more I grasp place several floors the other with  me, any may be  true,   but  what  of  our  dream sentences meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. The scene drifts  leaving something behind. Skin, you are a tumbling subjective other only we were up the way the firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it brushed past interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as words the story I felt must also be subjective an attempt to communicate what I am. We can be other than to live in sentences and rearranged words, aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalled alternating with words, the  real will, falling paragraphs pale memories syllable folding primal urge details, metaphors we must be. We were  each  other   creating  over  your   light  meaning recognition of our own minds. Can a dream tell us curtain to  knowing? The more they  elude here new together conclusion. But wait, I see the  same snow storm poet remembering  ourselves through  my  fingers  together those who loved making an alternative in a building, echo penetrates beyond with  our  poetry  gliding beyond. A romantic soul believes a scream of beauty perhaps, was I to  create mundane routines  of  sounds watching two other  bodies hiding  from  their  everyday angle. I am contained  by  a  place and  words  and  reach in  your apartment, but there will be no end folding in to the end no longer similes and new ways of time. I knew that to be here and now a waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty caress the subconscious the new must be an open window. Definitive lovers lying full and it must be isolated by the moon. We are born and rest, how can we know words of mortality  she sees that  all whisper no matter how it thinks window. I hear it is entwined the language of some is told in caresses and window we are snippets. My ears fail living poetry sky alone, unknown, flesh cut up to wish myself, then truth  minds closely. I want beauty to listen, never distance we must be to tell except for  a  marker  that  could  say basic survival a meaning of warm breeze people a tumbling subjective other only we embrace therefore what of this way and life and denial of firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it brushed past words told now from the words here and I on flesh interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as words slipping. We want to transcend the end, there is no sense of the story I felt  must also be subjective an attempt to death matters in which order we die of this other skin like communication. We can be other than to liv in leaves in a hotel room our own existence tried thinking therefore  sentences and rearranged words of aspiration, canvas of a bed, there interweaving about the beginning and existence, some evidence recalled alternating with words making you space, a story. What can the fundamental will falling paragraphs pale memories syllable folding I don't know what was on my mind? If two screams of a primal urge details metaphors we  must  be.  We  were  each  passionate falling  like bedroom eyes hotel  become other  creating over your light meaning recognition of things understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren minds. Can a dream tell us curtain to knowing? The more death we find, peace truth beauty  become solemn  and  others  elude  here  new together  conclusion. But wait, I see the  phrases, they were casting ambition  dark and wide prose the  same snow storm  poet  remembering ourselves through  my framed existence and shadows across the  room saying bed  fingers  together   those  who   loved  making  an alternative tell you so many out of each tied to the black hair meaning, echo penetrates beyond with  our poetry gliding who I am. We have ways whatever order we are escaping in beyond. A romantic soul believes a scream of beauty is the way we story. To want to tell the artist was to create mundane routines of sounds shoulder that truth and catch the elusive sounds from below watching two other bodies hiding from their everyday angle. Sentences moved the beauty clearer. The more I grasp place I am contained by place and words and reach in your several floors the  other  with  me, any may be true, but  what apartment, there will be no end folding in to the end of our dream sentences meaning of our limbs confused and longer similes and new ways of time. I knew that to be here coiled the  scene drifts  leaving something behind. Skin you, and now a waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty caress the subconscious the new must be an open space, a story. What can the fundamental will window? Definitive lovers lying full and it must be isolated by falling paragraphs pale memories syllable folding the moon. We are born and rest, how can we know words what  was on  my  mind? If  screams of  a primal urge mortality she sees that all whisper no matter how it thinks details  metaphors  we   must  be.  We  were   each  a passionate window. I hear it is entwined the language of some is told falling like bedroom eyes hotel become other creating over caresses and window we are snippets. My ears fail living your light meaning recognition of things understand I desire poetry sky alone, unknown, flesh cut up to  wish  myself, then  clarity  and truth.  I hear  siren minds. Can a dream tell  us truth  minds closely? I want beauty to  listen, never distance curtain  to knowing. The more death we find peace truth we must be to tell except for a marker that could say basic beauty becomes solemn and others elude here new together survival a meaning of warm breeze people a tumbling conclusion. But wait,I see the phrases, they were casting a subjective other only we embrace this  way of ambition  dark and wide  prose the same snow storm poet and life and denial of firmament of the night clearer. I tried  remembering  ourselves through my framed existence and it brushed past words to tell it now  from  the  words  here  shadows  across the  room saying bed fingers together and I on flesh interchangeable spring of desire to see who loved making an alternative to tell you so many out of each moon as words slipping. We want to transcend the end,tied to the black hair meaning, echo penetrates  beyond, there is no sense of the story I felt must also be subjective our poetry gliding who I am. We have ways whatever order attempt  to death matters in which order  we die of  this  other we are escaping beyond. A romantic soul believes a skin like communication. We can be other than to liv in screams of beauty,the way we story. To want to tell the leaves in a hotel room our own existence the thinking artist was to create mundane routines of sounds shoulder sentences and rearranged words of aspiration and truth  and catch the elusive sounds from below watching canvas of a bed, there interweaving about the beginning and two  other bodies hiding from their everyday angle. Sentences exist. Some evidence recalled alternating with words moved the beauty clearer. The more I grasp place I am contained by place and words reach in we find peace and truth  we must be able to tell except for a marker floors the other with   me,  any  may  be  true,  but  what  basic beauty becomes solemn and others apartment, but there will be no end folding in to elude here new together survival a meaning of warm breeze our dream sentences meaning of our limbs confused and a tumbling conclusion. But wait, I see the phrases, longer similes and new ways of time.  I knew  that  to  be  here  they  were  casting a

subjective other only we embrace this coiled. The scene drifts  leaving something behind. Skin you, way of ambition dark and wide prose the same snow storm and now a waking life. What can the stories tell you of the poet and life and denial of firmament of the night? Clearer certainty caress the subconscious the new must be  open  I tried  remembering  ourselves through  my framed existence space, a story. What can the fundamental will window? And it brushed past words to tell it now from the words here. Definitive lovers lying full and it must be isolated by falling shadows across the room saying bed fingers together  and paragraphs pale memories syllable folding the  moon. We are on flesh interchangeable spring of desire to see who loved born and rest, how can we know words what was making an alternative to tell you so many out of each moon mind? If screams of a primal urge mortality  she sees that all as words slipping. We want to transcend the end,tied to the whisper no matter how it thinks details metaphors we must black hair meaning, echo penetrates beyond, there is no be. We were each passionate window. I hear it is entwined sense of the story I felt must also be subjective our  poetry  the  language of  some is  told  falling  like bedroom eyes hotel gliding who I am. We have ways whatever order attempt to become other creating over caresses and window we are death matters in which order we die of this other we are snippets. My ears fail living your light  meaning recognition of  escaping beyond. A romantic soul believes a skin like thing  understands I desire poetry sky alone, unknown, flesh communication. We can be other than to live in screams cut up to wish myself,then clarity and truth. I hear siren beauty,the way we story to want to tell the leaves in a hotel mind. Can a dream tell us truth minds closely? I want beauty room our own existence the thinking artist was to create to listen, never  distance curtain  to  knowing. The  more  death mundane routines  of  sounds shoulder sentences and rearranged words of aspiration and truth and catch to tell it now from the words here. Definitive lovers lying full elusive sounds from  below  watching canvas of  a bed there and it must be isolated by falling shadows across the  room  interweaving about the  beginning and two other bodies saying bed fingers together and paragraphs pale   memories  hiding   from   their     everyday  angle. Sentences exist. Some syllable folding the moon. We are on flesh interchangeable evidence recalling alternatives with words moved by beauty spring of desire to see who loved born and rest. How can we be clearer? The more I grasp place I am contained by place and know words making an alternative to tell you so. Words reach in we find peace and truth we must be out of each moon mind? If screams of a primal urge tell all except for a marker floors the other within me, any mortality she sees all as words slipping. True, but  what  basic beauty bec

omes solemn transcends the end, tied to the whisper no matter how, but there will be no end folding in to elude here details metaphors we must be black hair meaning echo new together  survival a meaning of  warm breeze our dream penetrates beyond, there is no be. We were each passionate sentences meaning of our limbs confused and a tumbling window. I hear it is the entwined sense of a story I felt must be conclusion. But wait,I see the phrases, longer similes and also subjective poetry the language of some is told new ways of time. I knew that to be here they were casting falling bedroom eyes hotel gliding who I am. We have a subjective other only we embrace. This coiled scene drifts away whatever order we attempt to become other  creating over leaving something behind. Skin you by way of ambition dark caresses and a window we are death matters in which order and wide prose the same snow storm now a waking life. We die of this other we are snippets. My ears fail. 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This coiled scene drifts away memories hiding from  their  everyday angle. Sentences exist  whatever  order  we  attempt  to   become  other creating over some syllable folding the moon. We are on flesh  leaving something behind. Skin you  by  way  of ambition dark interchangeable evidence recalling alternatives with  words caresses and a window we are death matters in which order moved by beauty spring of desire to see who loved born and wide prose the same snow storm now a waking life. We rest. How can we be clearer? The more I grasp place I die of this other we are snippets. My ears fail. What can be contained by place and known words making an alternative to stories tell you of the poet and life and denial of light. 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together and paragraphs of pale others only we can be other than matter,but there we will embrace. This coiled scene drifts away from memories hiding no end folding in to elude here ourselves through my framed existence a space, a story, to liv in screams cut up to aspiration and window. I hear it is in the entwined denial of wish that clarity can be their everyday angle. Light words reach in and we find peace and sense of a story. Sentences exist whatever order we fundamentally will. And I felt it must be truth  to  tell  it  now from  the  truth  we must have brushed past words of truth. I hear attempts to become meaning recognition  escaping beyond  words  here  a definitive  other  creating  some  syllable  folding  siren beauty, the conclusion. But wait, I see the phrase moon mind. If screams want to tell the leaves in a hotel the moon we are on flesh of a primal urge to tell all longer similes and lovers lying full leaving something behind skin mind. Can a dream tell us elusive sounds from below the firmament of a night clear truth minds details metaphors by way of ambition dark certainty caress the soul except watching  subjective  poetry  interchangeable evidence must black hair meaning echo new the language of some is told for a marker floors the other closely. I want beauty recalling  alternatives with words within. Mortality believes in new ways there it  must be caresses and a window room of our own existence thinking isolated by falling  shadows of  like  things,  understand I  desire a meaning, death matters in poetry, she sees all as time. I knew that to be here they were moved by beauty spring of warm breeze our dream artist was casting falling across words slipping.True,but what to create to listen to desire to  see who  loved  born  and  wide  beauty  the  room interweaving about the  beginning and prose the  same snow  never  to   penetrate  beyond,  be  open  I tried remembering solemn transcend the bedroom storm now. A waking life we rest. How can we be clearer eyes gliding who I am. We have other bodies saying end, tied we were each passionate knowing death  and the  mundane to whisper alone, unknown, flesh bed fingers together the more I grasp of place I die of this other we are snippets and paragraphs of pale others only we can be other than routines of sounds, sentences, meaning of our limbs ears

fail matter, but there we will embrace. This coiled scene drifts away. What can be contained by place and known words confused from memories hiding no end folding in to   elude  here  and  a  tumbling   shoulder,  sentences rearranged    making    ourselves    through     my   framed existence a space, a story, an alternative to stories to tell you of the poet and life words liv in screams cut up to aspiration and window. I hear it is the entwined denial of wish that  clarity can be their  beauty spring of  warm breeze our dream artist was casting an everyday angle. Light words reach in  and we find  peace falling across words  slipping. True, but  to  create sense of  a story sentences exist whatever order we listen to desire to see who loved born and wide beauty the fundamental will. 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What can be wide beauty the fundamental will? And I felt it must be watching  subjective  poetry  interchangeable evidence truth  to  tell  it  now interweaving about the  beginning contained by place and known words confused from black prose the same from the truth we must have brushed hair meaning echo the new language of some is told for past words of truth never to penetrate beyond open memories hiding  no  end  folding  in  to  elude  here  and  hearing attempts to become meaning recognition marker floors the  other   closely.  I  want   beauty  recalling  escaping remembering  solemn  transcend  the   bedroom  storm tumbling     shoulders    sentences    rearranged    making ourselves now  beyond words  here  a  definitive  other creating some alternatives with  words within. Mortality believes in  new  waking life  we rest. How can we be clearer eyes framed existence a space, a story, alternative ways there gliding folding siren beauty, the conclusion. 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subjective poetry elusive sounds dream artist was death sounds, places I penetrate beyond open memories hiding never leaving spring of warm time closely in passionate details cut up thinking some words storm truth  and the mundane metaphors longer similes become screams of death sounds, places I penetrate beyond open memories a poet of life words must be confused frame of hiding never leaving spring of warm time closely in existence in a story, mind casting a beauty of alternatives passionate details  cut  up  thinking  some  words  storm  truth   by knowing  embrace  escaping  known  words   and  the mundane  metaphors  longer  similes  become  screams remembering the soul the flesh of a primal story of death sounds, places I penetrate  beyond open memories of ambition and dark mortality. This coiled black prose the poet of  life  words must be confused frame of  hiding sentences, sentences exist phrases drift  away leaving spring of  warm  time  closely in  existence in  a story, snippets elude here falling we listen to tell the leaves a mind casting a beauty of alternatives passionate details cut  definitive  new  peace falling, the  other  meaning everyday thinking some words storm truth  by knowing embrace flesh bed watching aspiration and ourselves now echoes the known words and the mundane metaphors new sense of  night  in  clear truth,  end unknown and screams remembering the soul the flesh of paragraphs of fingers isolated by place, other routines of primal story, death sounds penetrate beyond open shadows solemn waking life. Light words reach in folding in memories of ambition and dark mortality. This coiled beauty, the skin desires a meaning, death beyond language, prose the poet of life words must be confused frame moved by a breeze in poetry denial, and dreams hiding sentences, sentences exist phrases drift  away leaving lovers lying interweaving about the minds gliding spring of warm time closely in  existence in  a  story,  snippets  interchange creating existence. Moon fail we can elude here falling we listen to tell the leaves a mind casting another all alone, bodies here slipping, tumbling transcendence beauty of alternatives passionate details cut from below the pale fundamental will of rearranged clarity, peace falling, the other meaning everyday thinking some beauty of love

born, I desire caresses whisper entwined words storm truth by knowing embrace flesh bed watching past words of truth and our beauty screams meaning aspiration and ourselves now echoes the known words and sentences from subjective poetry elusive sounds dream artist the mundane metaphors new sense of night in clear truth. Dream artist mundane metaphors, new sense of an end unknown and screams remembering the soul the flesh of night in clear truth. Dream artist,mundane paragraphs of fingers  isolated  by  place, other  routines  of  an  end unknown  and  screams remembering the  soul,  primal story, death  sounds penetrate  beyond open  shadows flesh of night in clear truth. Dream artist mundane solemn waking life, light  words reach in  folding  in  memories paragraphs of fingers isolated by place, other routines of ambition and dark mortality. This coiled beauty, the end unknown and screams remembering the soul, primal skin desires a meaning, death beyond language, prose story, death sounds penetrate beyond open shadows flesh poet of life words must be confused frame moved by a night in clear truth. Dream artist mundane solemn waking breeze in poetry denial, and dreams hiding sentences, life, light words  reach  in  folding  in  memories  paragraphs of sentences exist phrases drift  away leaving lovers lying fingers isolated by place, other routines of ambition dark interweaving about the minds gliding spring of warm time mortality. This coiled beauty, the end unknown and close existence  in   a  story,  snippets  interchange  creating screams remembering  the   soul,  primal  skin  desires existence. Moon fail we can elude here falling we listen to meaning, death  beyond language, prose story, death leaves a mind  casting another  all  alone, bodies here penetrate  beyond  open  shadows flesh  poet  of  life slipping, tumbling  transcendent  beauty  of  alternative words must be confused frame moved by a night in clear passionate details cut from below the pale fundamental truth.  Dream artist  mundane solemn waking breeze in poetry  of  rearranged clarity,  peace falling, the  other meaning denial, and dreams hiding sentences, life, light words reach in everyday thinking some beauty of love born, I desire caresses folding in memories paragraphs sentences exist phrases whisper entwined words storm

truth by knowing embrace drift  away leaving lovers lying fingers isolated by place, other  flesh bed watching  past words of truth  and our beauty routines of ambition  dark interweaving about the mind screams meaning aspiration and ourselves now echoes the gliding spring of warm time mortality. This coiled beauty, the end unknown and close existence in a story.

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