Breaths. Which are flowers the god sent. Even the plain speech my prepositions strike. Harsh. Unwilling. My dogma. Blinks.
The truth here offers you a cigarette, but you refuse it. For an unusual reason. It scrutinizes your face. Disapproves. Then nothing happens.
There’s too much going on. Here. Even the mess blown about follows a course. Of course obscure to us. Plastic unbeautiful rope frayed blue. In a grim heap.