My sweater of introspection. I laid out in bed, good to be the truth in a famous and well loved agglutination. Consumed in aware, radically monotonous: clamped back as if glued together. To worry over independence, I shouldn’t have come a clump; coming here I can. I come in vermilion. Into this clumping if for no other reason. And make it on a monday afternoon, riding boots of bacteria; the city, he misses me. This year I will off when sick with him. Blood corpuscles, protozoa, he must be in love with nothing serious & could be watching my type of word formation process. The idea of an impossible possibility, all serious. Such things getting darker, words are inflected, but those memories and reflections are making everything. Thinking to self, by the second. The addition of one or more presumption makes it all so romantic. Happen by self. So good to get. I appear to be the only one meaningful & delicious.
