Scorch

What makes a pontiff listened-to. The punishable eros maybe that's surpassed the lengths of houses and the textured streets. Form throttles the paced assimilation. Concurs with furnace and the land and several varieties of taxi down the halt zone. Cremation's not the way. Sforzando's not the way. Pavillion's just a quarter hour from here, so here, let me escort you. Three softgels of cod liver oil ease movement. Among the sandstone mountains and fishermen prospecting abundance. Why don't you medicate the self you've advertised, begin the cycle of the cloning and the cycle of impediments. It's treetop time, and time to mourn the space where growth's en route to trespass. Breaking up won't happen by itself. We're destined to accommodate what we already see into the future. And future is a startling guess as pretty and as predicated as a mood swing. Share and shave and panic just alike.

Routine, a sound the mobile makes in wind postured as icy or as heated breath

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Sheila E. Murphy | Forming a Base
Contents | Mudlark No. 8