Ten curtains, wind and trail. Our eyes are woven. Instrument Nature languishes, and tears straight from the mouth of mouth's clatter. It's an old anarchical soul trick, crushed by the head its own metaphor. Severed by the vapours of its own body, lost between dusk and divulgation.
Bread sucks from the principle of situation.
The artifice is alive in its disintegration and life coils around it in imaginary gestures as if the view were embodied, as if the view were real. I could swallow its fiction to the extent of my flood, to the extent of our delicate deficiency. I could send it out of nothing except my voice. The artifice states against the background of my clamour. I imagine its taste, its full tilt as if fullness was representation, was alien.