unsilent
The wind Trickles me into the crevices still undiscovered. I dance with LA grenouille verte. Cette une maladie inguérissable, Lolita me dit. Petite génie tout Jaune bouclé! I believe her and love her for it, the precious little Alice bird that captures my Truth when I am not looking. Flakes descend from the frozen skies of the East, The Witches of the Mont Cackle, Call and Prepare the next SweaT of collected wet eyeballs that turn in the skulls of the ignorant. Stones are selected, counted, placed in a simple burning row. They wait for the clarity that will arrive through the streams of the Aurore, reaching deeply into the...