Fractions of salt where fragrances . . . Something descrying the nation, finding middles of roads, neglecting to position self in the scenery. Louis blew his horn like no one. Sound along a curve. All center all not center.
Margins are the pretty ones.
Where in a grateful peace, a celibate prolonged intention. Riding rich stalled beam of tangent to. And whim so doppler as to be a thirst complete in this vibration. Stirred from geometry that someone sculpted. I would not whim to beam, tangents to not touching.