This

Morning began untamely. Breast birds chafed the atmosphere with cloud mirrors of cloud. There I t

hought I was not here at all. The tall play gimmicks its way into our collective system. We are spectators, not spectacles each one farming framing freeing habits from being lustrous on their own, deciding which one measures up in the matriculation known to command some kind of performance. Yes, the party starts in a half century. Do you have time to carve what you crave, including integers at rest at their best in hiding, perhaps confiding in a cheap lit world that suns itself where clouds loudly chafe what we had dreamed right where we dreamed it. Now someone else will watch the catch and bland their way to makeshift harvest that won't compete with marvels and carloads of quilts about to cloak someone in holding but not held in a soul's young arms.