Festive, retinal sarcasm. Beaten between the glance of odd stuff. The public vacancy upon a shower of red rings and deposits of cold upbringings. The breeze of this bliss throws the whole thing to its timely descent.
unless for merchants, out there the sky would be gray, cold. Thank heavens for Zwan. An afternoon was spent in mindful awareness. Good thing to think. Mind overflowing with intangible characters, many whom resemble priceless scaffolding, a night of intent and vaccination. The ice cream parlor, the boy, the pretention in the right mood. You can excise the hunting philosophy, can’t tame the dead.
Dead is dead.