One struggles one does. My art is your old shoe, patiently biding its banishment. You see, the idea of reading Deleuze is attractive - very much so - and yet the act of it makes one dizzy to the point of stupid. Let's be honest, yes? Four blades of grass fumbled with the dry soil until a passing thunderstorm lent them a necessary grace.
Much-needed? The tomatoes pulled at the vines reminding one that life is forever in a state of motion. Decisions are never called for! I looked all night for the moon - that lovely unfolding assurance - and saw instead a blurred gray, or perhaps sensed the blurred gray. He wrote as if perpetually on "the edge of darkness."
A time never comes. The dog's tail curled up revealing soft blond hair underneath, the only detail that separated her from the coyotes whose fate was ever at risk. I meant to say something about a pendulum. Unicycle? God is not the site of choice.
At last the young woman signed up for vocal lessons and so her fate was sealed. The cards dealt? It is only a struggle if we insist on playing the central role! You wake up and the birds are singing and what did you do? We open windows, we oil the gate, we pluck the fruit and compose a bright salad.
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