please, we went in duo, shaded aptly, with guards of uttering green
ceding to yellow, red, orange and aplomb. distance sapped a mention of
memory from disparate landmarks, and we could only stay with the breast
of sun in its slanting difference. what else would we do with the
fullness of our directive? does love need a case to be made? like a leaf
falling into plain water, we have the map to ourselves. our drift is
perfect, less a crowd than a way to go to the shape of intent. we found
a thing or two, and stay in the finding. we could not know more with
each association of mile, dusting throughly thru the tendency to stay as
we do. we have this intent position, curled into a warming cycle, while
the earth itself reacts with mazes. the stars tell whistling stories
when we wake for them, and gibbous moon is a boon of the passways. dream
remains a lark that crowds morning with a form of delight. was it ever
1968 or other fabled dots? who can tell? music doesn't end, it curves.
this curve initializes the place of standing, wet for a tear or two, and
for examined thirst as well. we know that water mounts to nothing, water
never mounts. we wait in fast colours, and go as fast as they do. trees
delight us because they live each clock and then go around the bending
as easily as snow in the offing. we saw the interstate as managed and
combustible, thus we took its horse for a chancy stay. we noted little
roads that striped the map with day after day. when we are two, the
years are interested in declaring fault. when we are distances, the work
endures. these forces combine into roads with the gorgeous emblem of
trees to match our mood. when we are colours, light sends a bonus to the
hills just for us. we can't nationalize Thailand anymore, try as we
might, on this road or any other. we can't stray for the flowers that
fall from the hills. we can't wait for the merger of industry with
heart. we have a day in an autumn sun, distinct with purchase yet not
bent by the claiming. do we see speed as affordable or just the vaguest
point in the landscape? never to be controlled by that bossed function
of separation, we stay with the fact that colour is a laden dainty, a
crumb of loving wisdom for the spreading instant that we share.
