Perpetual do sol so I rise acting as though I am ondon speaking. I speak acetonic. A stem, a hodge, a nightshade technik. 

I’m at the meeting place as we discussed tipping my head back as we discussed. 

My belly is little and worries its birthdays. I order extra lighthead, hedge a smokehouse. My teacher of horsetail is speaking, my horse hips a trailback. 

So I hoop and cling, calculate madmanman.

Tant in my place, which cannot retract or be retracted. Else decides a place is where I am and what I am looking at. Everything is a little bit unused I like to think of all the unused kinds of values. 

With the cloth around my head I can hang anywhere. With dead matter I can put anything back. Our kyli, our cox boots’ whipping-love’s bullas. But what. The bigger I get the more I get empty. 

People can’t go sound anymore, they do not lay slabs of themselves down. 

People do not represent the ghost-whistle of particles, full of cavities and cells, solids and voids, which, as nerve-force issues from the body, sound out sounds, which repeat without end, revealing all truths in how the cosmos came to be, powers of the elements, the beginning end and midst of times, whether secret or known, manifest or invisible. 

My horse lay down and I on his back lay down with him. 
comola_5.html