In simple shade an indigent itinerary is lost against the effort to get there. A feel copped then forgotten. An echo afforded from, I couldn't guess. Built, fanatical landscape; unheralded heroic absences. Figured out plainly in numbers or sticking the mind with words. Ticking out like native stuffing, wishing in a wing, exiting right or left; sticking around. I give up the song. It hides. It wants the plum I never had, in a metaphorical garden, forgetting its naked self, no longer nude.


 

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