Which is door, which is wall, as we say we want living to be absolute.
Which is fog in December and which is the same set of experiences at the same time?
The girl eats her sandwich.
You have made things yours, but those things have not accepted you as
belonging to them.
The little round-faced man drives his car, wanting living to be absolute.
The houses are soft, and folding over on each other.
The houses are off and never-endingly folding over each other.
When I was a kid, someone in my family used to buy lottery tickets.
Now I’m a round-faced man.
I eat everything, the ocean residing in fog, and the glass bridge approaching on many levels that don’t all arrive at the same time.
I’m very sleepy now.
The girl in the backseat is sleeping.
The boy and the woman are sleeping.
That’s all their names.
I change them every day.
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