

A driftwood Essayforever and flawless those un-plucked flowers pressed in poetry volumes and the ocean.A driftwood Essay
oddities of memories as river stones, well rounded in their patient education; as punctuated coffee stains,
those discarded sutras by accidental monks, who learned calligraphy from the rain.
what clever lines the cipruss roots, embroidered with lichen ‘nd worm trails. how fertile those monks are now,
as love is recorded diligently, in chronicles of a child stomping in the rain.


"life support"This is shutting down. No one else sees it, because the foam pets are selling nicely. The goldfish are being won. They are playing "Stairway to Heaven" yet again on the Fire Loop. Appealing to the masses."life support"
When she says to me, "the sun is setting," I already know. I close one eye, aim and shoot. Its yellow, dead body loosens its grip on the sky and starts to drop.
"Probably," she says, "no one else is even watching."
I really, truly know what she means, but making words out of a feeling is impossible.
"What... the hell... are people doing?" I ask finally.
The people below us a
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the prospect of his future life stretched before him like
a sentence; not a prison sentence, but a long-winded
sentence with a lot of unnecessary subordinate clauses
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"Evolution didn't stop with us getting thumbs. There are a lot of metaphysical, spiritual, and emotional changes going on right now, and we're just trying to reflect that. We're not that different from Tori Amos" ~ Maynard James Keenan
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