“Karl Jaspers, you wear the air, and the only exit is too short even for you.”

                                                All cork and cautious drink. They weren’t fooling him.

Last week he fell right at the room near both a low window in a moment later.
He stood there with the oddly shaped limestone formations and remembered
the mists with a small stream tumbling along on the landing
and silently he understood.

It’s the everything. He could hear it. Sympton Six of Doubt.

The rock glowing to an icy anger was much smarter than an egg white when finally
he got by the night. To the arm, then, goes, without the everything always.

One two three. So we say nothing because the bread won’t thin the North none.

“Where am I at and why should I remember why Karl Jaspers sighs?”

                                                The question hangs itself a shroud. We move by numbers.

There, beside the arm, without bending in, what else is there without bending in?