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EAST IDEA STREET

In he rolled on the old bus to the long-looming goal. An immigrant from the eyes of night, he attained unimaginable something. He saw in midnight full island towns with cannibal harvest horrifying. Still riding dusty lazy bus with its low gleam. Seen from the window. A series of small worlds observed. He heard the sound say Chameleon Cafť. This immeasurable animal gathered about the tables examining night.

With a philosophical shrug I get to see beyond, and to walk a day downtown. And what do I see posted like Simon Sentinels all around town? Paintings like dreams; quiet and most enchanting. Trees with a hollow gaze, meadow advancing. Thatís just one painting and it took me away and I had to come back. Next painting travel four hundred miles to see if the wind blew on old Tennessee. Large tree with meaning still deeper than meaning. Un-vaccinated. See the old river flowing, image of un-graspable action. Seasick passengers. Iíve tried to abandon the distinction of such offices to those who like all honorable, respectable boiled rats.

All the circumstance I see, cunningly presented to me; the delusions of Mr. Monster Moulder and the air jacket disease. I feel sure of my old boots. It was something about buying oysters; everything connected by water. Amazingly pleased, I let solace flash in.

The November.

I soul whenever.

I can begin to be older, conscious of my lungs. He rowed quarrelsome, intent on his right to enjoy the glory-ocean in such offices and to dominate all honorable tribulations. Finding some comfortable way in this wild injustice. Undeliverable nameless radio. As for me, I love the sail, be-winded forth for foreign ride. My lot is to see through periscopes over ever-shifting fish.

Suddenly of my mind an idea was made; a result-island of amazing design. I knew you wild fish articulating amazing glory-road while we discover extensive jolly moments there in coffee land.

A shed on the island. Reminding you of other brick hairs all ticklish on Dignity Day. Old chimney cried softly in the howling night. Wind in the flue. Old chimney irons lay silent. And from those jaws of destruction, like another criticís abominable truth cylinders, within the villainous green godly gasses, come words to measure further the strange towns of bitter night. Although I have the latest news for each unfortunate historian, to believe as I wonder is a most substantial howling.

An area bird very rare. And let him have a hardly lost arm branch. Weíll stand by resolute and look at the clock. I see the washed Saturday. Folks enjoying that same new feeling. The current year being completely non-plastic, this exhilarating thing of voyages on the dark green lawn by wriggling Mulholland citizens gives us on-the-road astonishment. Momentary wild humbling Tomahawk glimmering like the most loving infection. The honestly announced road interrupting his eyes. Watching all the motion, rolling with time.

To growl at art he commenced a vigorous screeching using grudges. All the rest of his thought was of the great pilot-monkey on communicationís edge. A strange age, a silent mason. All the pictures of his wrinkled face show a certain gleam of newly developed overshoes to one by one remove.


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