We’re making very good progress
The man in the moon lies face down in his blood, upset stomach roiled at grossesse of tort
Hymn, examining psychosis and prejudice
We’re making great progress I don’t understand why the audience shows up if the audience doesn’t want meat
Shy disruption at feast of hallway if all Fall made ignorance wail like summer’s jest
Heels or wheel deals
Tossing of bones
Inaccuracy
Fruit insolvency, abrupt
Remote distrust yoke in break of imagination jest still lost suddenly as who listens listens back
