Blind unwilling limits
perhaps unknown to all between the eyes of the paralysed coloured sails
The other is like that of which folding is barely not enough
Like in a wretched contour of a welcome
You be descending there in the elsewhere autumns
in the immensity which lights the grains of night
It is the ripples praise of myself simulating the living space possible in a bouquet of fingers,
and the faceless itself that carry on the mornings and plant the first words on the scattered images of consiousness