There is no bold only red. There is no second only squared in yesterday. Millet stands looking disheveled. These circumstances couldn’t have been predicted. It’s more a course of life. Like a distant entranced memory she comes back to him. It’s as self created this time as any other. The parallel motion drop in. The patterns emerged from the chaos. It was here under syntax that everything became disjointed. Warped.

Notes
Text created in 0.5084 seconds
© 1995 - 2014 gmb & ebbflux.com