One watches sunlight flicker on the shallow pond and all afternoon reflects. Hell is other people - or maybe just Sartre. Put your glasses on and see if the text doesn't resurrect of its own accord. Old poems are the best. Defy - I mean deny - expectations.
As in, who amongst us hasn't been the dentist? Is that a way of saying you would like to write poetry about a kind praying mantis? Once upon a time I explored fearlessly but then I learned. Foxes, ravens and black bears with pumpkins. The world is indeed full of people who know what in the hell a red bird is.
Ever on the stage! The words swam on the page and then sank like stones intent on settling. The apparent confusion is ever in attendance yet there is always another turn just up ahead. Up the road, past the graveyard, all the way to where the road ends and then you keep going. The only hell I'm thinking of is whatever I'm thinking of right now.
Pigeons are angels in a city otherwise bereft of saints. Finally I understand what he meant when he sang mysterious ways. Take comfort my friend because all idiocy is obviated sooner or later. Often it feels like I want whatever is whatever after this. She watched sitcoms and gradually deciphered the central illusion.
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