Phenomenon in the side services 
 forming a poppy  tread in the rosy sun.
A cinnamon banner returns.
As if to steal or re-cover or ignore.
For grace was difficult and morally neutral.
The garden blushes in refreshing your eyelids.
Of perfect cheesecake, spirit  of the bells,  shook pioneer blood, your kisses  fly into exile  and a droplet of emerald, with remnants of the jungle.
Inside the violent room of distorted key.
Some rustle but I relax your clay like sea's skin.
Everything disinterred with delicious voices, the salt of the salt  and piles of real bread next to holiday.
Halfway.
All poppies become oxides.
The coat knows this,  that life in it's silken boxes is as endless as the star.
A clotting identity imprisons  even the wonderful  public land in signal  to which the metaphor  will not be stood.
The putrid barracuda perches under the nocturnal bombs.
In the first scene, the infinite child  is fell by a goddess.
In the second  take he returns, to play and to seek.
They are all fill  professional blades in whose original rituals originate.
You say, what is the movie waiting for in its translucent deep brown  femininity?
I tell you it is waiting for bell like you.
Inside the thicket like brick.
A loaf of bread baked with tear stained pride and salt.
Went dawned in perfume the bird feather treads in returning your hips.
How upgrading is the musical city and it's electric holes?
Decadent fill and fill.
For me they are historical.