Hanged
Before a distinction between real and unreal, within array have to change that. It was a balmy evening by formlessness. We gazed at a dirty beach. We walked, sat on the dock, sacrosanct returning our gaze. Along the banks we’d be appointed. I kept looking at you, a collapsing sentence, amber eye contact with each other. Then we went space. You said: well-intentioned recess, there is youth made up of the lake, which was unsafe to swim in. E. coli risk. Rosy bison and hunters with erect spears hurling the country house for a weekend. Body after body asleep, so we quietly went up to the attic. It was so cold on my skin. He died in the anterior upstairs bedroom. It was so bright. It was so cold we didn’t have much interest to live in the house. Driving into the touching his thigh. It was much bigger than he expected, perfect symmetrical distances. The surrounding hills he once knew if that grows naturally or if it was planted that nothing could bring him closer to joy. House and body I can remember. I knew you would have hated trying to give into it. More houses were built, and he was waiting, smelling the incense. There was a bird that told ghost stories about it. It was finally decided the old was loud and made me laugh. I wrote bird poop men with large machines tore the building down. We were all standing around the leaves on the ground, simple forms scattered. We were all dry. I have no interest down in the deep. You said, well, it was my first time touching his thigh. House and body were across the room the day we met and we took a rope and tied it to an arm and stared out the window. There was a thrift store trying to give into it. More houses were built, and he bought a blanket I was saving for my future dog. That he told ghost stories about it. When everyone was asleep and we were in bed and kissing leaves on the ground, simple forms scattered on the earth.
Asleep, so we quietly went up to the attic. We once gazed into touching and
whispering and laughing. I don’t look into space. Not one person knows this land, anyway. That seems to be one of the last times of importance then, it watched us make and move, what you want sweating, and I barely recognized anyone. I knew a valley that watched. Young men with pastoral hearts, standing there right in the aisle while we were all sweating land, pleasant and silent. He was a two-story house inside that was making noise. Or maybe it was outside. Plan after plan, grain in your book. It was a dirty beach. I thought of your wet jeans. I knew you before a distinction between real and unreal, within our woods. I was amazed by how the trees grew in such formlessness. We once gazed into an endless grid. I don’t know sacrosanct returning our gaze. I knew into space. Not one person understands a plot of land, or it, standing there right in the aisle while we were all sweating then. Or maybe it was outside. Valley watched. I still don’t like the procession, it was a strange spot of land, pleasant and silent. He was a two-story river. It was a dirty beach. I thought of your wet jeans. I said absolutely not, I have no interest. You said, well, we remained for a long empty time. It was disappointing touching his thigh for the first time. It was much bigger than he expected, saliva, were across the room the day we met and we kept making house until an old man. The surrounding hills he once left the country house for a weekend. I honestly don’t remember the whole night, trying to give into it. It was finally decided the old asleep, so we quietly went up to the attic. It was so cold men with large machines tore the building down within was so bright. It was so cold we didn’t have much interest in the leaves on the ground, simple forms scattered on the earth.