In the face of the null, the place of endrakenment, flag unfurls from fish. Violence of the spandex born from fatal soil. In the cloak, arouse irrational refrain expressed as voiceless will, conventional, a disappearance. Sound to answer doubted questions, the word and simple disbelief, begrudge the garden, brush with the law. Little hardens, onions in the ovens of the sea.
Distance is the answer in a grammar.
There is nothing here but a Molson, that bub's meant for you, tubal bloom. Isolated absence, appearence, light launched from the narrow target, if birds were bells. A night that grows out of an elf, a polity of dead gardens. There is no censor, only the hierarchy, postmodern, sanitized. In power, events reply to dreams.