We partook in the incident then left the house. The township was rent into quadrats. The sectors were cystic with wetland. We needed to leave the house. A menace was sleeping.
At the drive-in eras were molting. A relation was present. My home is through the vein on the mud. In the gaps in the steel is a knowing, and that’s why eras were molting.
So grateful to waft through the organ, the brick seats the night of a kiss. It depends where we sit on the circuit. We took off our molten garments. We spat in a toilet of words.
An ovum is couched in happenings. There may be an inner tadpole. There’s a nexus in the loaf of the surface. If the now is an encroaching scrim, the may is a bullet from a cringing skin.