Sheep cries echo across the fields.
Saturday wasted, again.
Sun appearing here, moon appearing there.
Stonehenge was progress.
No longer recognizing the argument but still recognizing winning.
Inverted turtle shells.
It gets bad sometimes, who doesn't know this.
Men whose stories falter, fall off.
Little Wing, broken wing, hallowing.
Glimmering web threads floating off rafters in the hay loft.
Who trembled mounting the gallows.
Perpetually drawing aside curtains.
A sickness traced back to guitars.
Always Kali, always Perses, always this self-righteous fury ending in crucifixion.
Notes coming out of the void.
We are not observers.
Imagine new alphabets.
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