Pillow fighter, like a tiger, only the puddles of uncertainty shimmer under the muted moon.
Like a cast forward, gnawing and knowing, light hits the dust and a blizzard is born in the space between thoughts.
Keeping time with the last days of fallacy, the description is ripened to a sweet pulp that soaks up all the attention in the room. Somewhere in the distant closeness, a tiny vibration is off the chain, and a mind has stolen a way into itself.
Lazy leaves rustle with disinterest, fierce hearts put up plastic jungles to machete through, and it is written in prophecy that the world will end if all the microwave ovens beep at once. Breezes breathe through your house, through the windows and past the four of clubs.
The world is full of dinged chisel blades, worn and scratched from carving trillions of engraved disinvitations.
How high would all the fire we have ever made reach?
Blatant infractions and calculated reactions, relive your life between the contractions.
Pine needles flow like very slow water down the hill, the reach ponders the existence of the grasp.
Fleshed out with fresh doubt, the footprint on the page has marked it's punctuation.
Power on, flavored soldier, the smoothness of entrancement beacons from the "wait a minute..." moments.
Impenetrable fancies wish away all the novice reckonings, ripples along the lifetime from smile to bed. The woods are full of cadence calls and life savings. Unassuming and underblooming, that garden looks different first thing in the morning.
Carry away the day.
Carry away the day.
Sights roll around in heads like the moon rolls around the world