Illness of the Text
only of trees. The flourishing wind in obeisance made the wall, on, for, and darkened moment in the pool, which reflected and suspected light itself. Birds, or flying a made spot soft, slowly flutter, across floor bedroom of night dreams fumbling— mumble of what—left their heads across the way.
To the going, light, what but does one send?
Alone, green-gray, faltering the house, light the wall on opposite. The places empty. Were such parts of the somehow, fan.