Somnium Gatherum -- John Olson

Galaxies are loot. In quite the and of lanterns. I've been tattered here before. Kepler is a probability of spit, elliptical and helium. Artifacts of seen have beauty. A point is migratory. Help this movement. Half of Petrarch is an arm. They who read him are beet sugar exhausting the light. Constantly hard, that distant sleeve must be a C-clamp by method and a study by memorandum. Its buttons are tender and hurricanes. A trackway for the mythological microscopic jewels of belly dance odors. Some literature radiates interiors. Odd how the own glowing fruit bat believes itself the Choctaw of rockets. Quickly now marinate Greenland. It would seem huckleberry to permeate the mountains with blue. Oh dear I have an exception to make it is banked in violins and bronze as a Rembrandt. The blossoms are to reach au gratin sometime this June. Meanwhile let us swallow a subterranean damascene with our hands. Our toes are like spoons and our anatomies are back from our nerves. Potentialities of motion borrowed from dawn inspire Hollywoods of blood and veins hearing it all drag swells of music to the heart where it is expanded into blackberries. After my profession contacted the headlights it documented the jeep more carefully. Steps are minimalist forms of audition. Once I found the right motif I had seconds to venture into an extension cord and make Polaroids of passion. This is the first time I ever inhabited a wild yellow logic. The instrument serenades of buoyant implication match the wallpaper like Tycho when he lived in a castle feasting and studying the stars. It was good to meet you. Drop by again sometime. A glare of cabanna fashioned out of counterfeit ribs dangles from the current. Traces decoded as mincemeat hands are opera's life. Alchemy opens exteriority to boxwood but cannot box speed. One by one the braids suspend and subside into yodels in Italy. A brain of ether is either ether or intimate like a climate. This is all cohering someday in someone's conception of whortleberry. I can promise you this the coats are authentic tubes of joy. Your arms go this way but your torso fluctuates here where the eternal meets the salt and which is it going to be daylight or swarms of biography. Because one day it all ends. Falls into light and snows on a span of igloos.

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