Afar is a trance of clarity, a wished elongation of the will to bear the danger forward in froth. Scent becomes inorganic tossing itself upward like ground seed, a carriage posture falling lengthwise, blessed for its image-trigger; the object crystallizes in tears into a centerpiece. Aflame the star of her soft scent and pink riven skin circling farther from the boreal lights, tweaked once there or after dinner in the ineptitude of unease, I am rescued by thinking it permanently vanished and truss it for its stone shelf. Dunce in a preserve of feathers, rapine wit in love, dilatory injection of the process of gratitude might not make love more possible when infinite. The signs of brown buds dressed for the table. Mark: the appetite of self-regard in fad of self-loathing, a formal disguise pretty upon us as a giant wheel, and steadfastly unrelated to her: she has one heavy thigh curling over the other under a pale green caftan, exuding a fixed smell, fairly happy and beautiful, she feels the nice dropping dew point really. But scatter to the neighborhood, roll up its implements into an idealized removal like a wire fence rolled across sand, almost 'fun'. The pike of divorce shoots me in fake steerage, shows up the country in epochal clamor with damned unintended features casting pell-mell over endless series of darkly luminescent hills. A basic angel is spread over the ground. In nicked capsules we waylay the necessities of loss as coaxing for a present spirit which would then be forgotten and of utterly no use. Distance can so dangerously relieve intense discolorations, marking its progress in reverse of a bruise: the regard line tightens until my mother's face recedes until it will recede properly, and not as an implement of my wretched vanity. And then.