the world is about to explode. the high flower buds are about to explode. those other tall flowers that are thoughts are also about to explode. the machinery of our mills is about to explode. throat of the bird nest in our chests is about to blow apart the air blue. soprano voice that we are not about to exploit the piano on which it rests. the white winter of ideas has exploded in a world "grue? expand the gardens to accommodate the seasonal cocoon. the hearts of all animals-including myself included, are about to explode. are blind to anything to see. mute sounds are inaudible to hear anything. eardrums are about to explode soprano voice that we were not. the backs of my fingers are about to explode. the nature of bodies is about to explode. death itself is about to explode because the tombs are open to anything. and the earth opens poque the world is a bomb and has no room for the engine diameter is.
but if this blows up, "those dark swallows will return in winter, where nature is so elusive?
* this is the flower I see that I drink when I write I play physical and spiritual nourishment my body (park-operated mills)
speechless
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