How Many TimesKen Rumble
The white truck illuminant, spelled cargo drowsy in the sine wave of ruts and left turns. The snow has time, take the horizontal – talk about skiing, we know the bud, bare in the sand and forgotten. The cold is always there, so we take the train, ask for galoshes, see a barber now and then. The wood sticks as much as burns – the whole hard or the half in water. There are grass huts as if living under the dress of a hula girl. Milkshake, orange shake – it’s a double diamond that takes your breathe out to share juice with two straws. Watch the pedestrian show, leave a tip and wash your hands – the service is atrocious but the atmosphere is habitable. And this flake chases that one and so many chase and chased – movement makes movement – stillness is. The grass is green below and above about the castle and the lake.
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