Enter (Catalyst) HereAnn M. Fine
In the following, an errant agent of redistribution was flummoxed by writing games, in affect, supined as a page to the very planetary evening after all. Ours is an agent betrayed (by god) but hidden to grade his moon which is all of our, by the way, moon; below from which he shot (for wild game) / fingerfully signing an architecture single handedly / in (what like) paper pajamas he had. Sufficely, this annoyed agent’s false teachers, who not rather agreeing thought they detected an awful sorrow how agent bluely noted his decorous weapon / of a scarce so / and so seemingly this denuded agent’s splurging glow—however really lovely faced up. These significant clues told his eyes his heart. Upon once shorn time shone from head to total feeling (aces) acing to be one’s apple, lip, or all append from endless white stars; Our beloved agent human’d terribly still in no clothes till modesty of efforting drug, wanting, besotly smalled some of him / until our summing agent knew enough to smother the no-longer -(I) and placate random celestial bodies now opulently careened on the scene; a worthy embarking (on what?) On this our agent correctly reflected: how not-walls of clay suns and or pooling shadows in the spa can tailor-fog out one’s whimpering bliss; the clock of most-of-all self winding. This is how the night sky became a canon of his character; And how, above all, he learned from his copious will how he could keep; a captive to the moon.
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