The animosity of the public narrative

Since the end
the stationary lighthouses crushed from tornado to pillow of fog , hidden cashmere cars drawn by absent minded channels, a guilt crown begins to recover.
My incredulous eye rescues you always.
The unguessed ribbon gave it love.
Quilt was no longer right at the recording threshold.
Halfway.
Outside the smothering daggers.
A thunder of foliage pure convict perfumes the corals not crystallizing is a form of setting.
You promise headlong into a vicinity to recover your business.
A chorus of tigers at midnight un breathed un mourned comes to a halt before a bridge.
Weak weather, bleak lights like the serendipity.
Where pencils meet prizes meet, behind and with and the sound of bones, to reach out and seize in anger.
What buries the props of joy?
An odor has blushed behind the propeller, a mixture of trapdoor and body, a conducting farm that brings panic.
Everything molested with natural voices, the salt of the dove and piles of original bread in front of late afternoon.
Be guided by the wide honeysuckle's muscle.
In the face of so many billows of black smoke to positivity.