Even days. A necklace of milk fractures outside the door of a randomly removed room. Sighs of winter has smoothed the wrinkled cuffs of the corner barber. Words were molested to harvest poetry for clouds to stay in bed. A cache of hearts offer its stamp of approval to a circle of pickled fruits who nod knowingly in unison.

As gossips continue to reinvigorate a shoe merchant’s dresscode, visions are attached to the doll with one swollen armpit.  She who withholds new stars from eyelids of eccentric oceans. A litmus sky must resurrect news for blindfolded buds to be photographed. Where a pair of slippers had shrunk with the eventuality of a routine medical examination, clouds now unwrap trances to evade passionate glances of gloved sand trembling on a conveyor belt that suffocates a heart.


  

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Sunday must have trickled potion sky
 

Sunday must have trickled potion sky

 

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a wink the rush before soon after
 

a wink the rush before soon after

 
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