𝔄 𝔟𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔬𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔥𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰 𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔴𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔦𝔞 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔢𝔵𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰...

Rustling tea breeze caught in chimes not at sea whispering silent tide of piccolo leaves falling steeping deeper with the porcelain anchor adrift in the memories of wading, listening to the rhythm over the horizon beyond the buoy

Crawling paresthesia residents in the molars of the house whispering somewhere deeper than the foundation gnawing the cold earth dripping insomnia echoing the chitter-chatter from the night's faucet creeping from the pulsing Mr. Coffee's carafe ticking against the womb...

"Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?" Then long came the moon, rising, creating shadows of haunted fingers that linger, haunted by memories capturing the soul, come September, leaving a clue of dark's long black Cadillac, getting...