I

Sleeping pastures challenge Heartstring Essence, a favorite part seized by armies of liquors.

Ultimate Access, a moon in June with magnificence in editing, a theory on sessions, arms and hands and legs lost to the ludicrous initiatives of Raymond Buckland and Lewis Carroll.

These California experiences in university libraries, these brainchild survivors of the final elements, shaken up by clearly crucial curriculum.

Philosophies and histories sink cities of text, the founding fathers embracing Vatican turnarounds on Wilde, converted on his deathbed as he commented half-heartedly on the wallpaper.

All editions of this omnifolio are available for perusal at earliest leisure-stricken activities.

144,000 carved on the forehead, a medallion that says 93.

Variations of the cells lost steady speakers and still lives, hips and wings wanted for phase stress and hilarious effect.

More lines than we have time.

II

He is skilled in the art of the unkind,

more than taken in his consideration of the winds,

They put their eyes upward for schnaudenfreude,

in summer, in languid movements,

Every day was too short to enjoy fully:

Sometimes it proved too much to take in

with just these paltry passages.

The sky burned pink and orange for us.

We thought it splendid, as is often the case

in coloring gold these dimmed respects,

In Time of Easy Traps,

too seriously changed

to be a prospect any longer,

Or in the nature of untrimmed gardens,

in memory of our everlasting summer

He will weaken, he will lose his right,

what he sees as his possession.

Death upon death will be with him,

He is wrong in his blind schautten,

Those everlasting lines of the time we grew best:

Of that toxic preciousness that they breathe in and out,

The individual eyes can gleam,

Thus the long lives lived go unseen,

I curse this fool with a life unlived.

A squirming worm in our golden garden.