Just a low wall and tired, a vase of flowers and a red light and strangers to cook for three quarters to make me someone I do not know.
blare sirens of Baghdad after two decades: in my suburban history can be up to the alarm of an SUV or a solution that some sensationalist sebaceous boy is preparing for the next world. All I
bea, everything I hold, and among forests of rosemary feel to exist elsewhere and otherwise, have the ribs or under the femur or a circumlocution of the brain a crowbar to force the jaws of common sense and find that Below that is still common sense.
sitting in the middle of the time I have left before the next edition of the news, wonder, the army kidney soreness as required by the rules of the dura mater, which even now, now I'm wearing pajamas, cotton is kneaded my life. The dura mater
know, the dura mater wants.
