Friday, December 16, 2011

Slipping From A Cloudy Scabbard

One jumps, one begins. One gazes at the sky and wonders if there is another way to see it. Tea in bed. What a rotten moon, slipping from a cloudy scabbard, scuttling up the sky. Be bold my darling!

Letters come depicting a possible lifestyle, one I might have wanted. We are what we grow. Why is almost never the right question. He gave a fortuitous speech, one that paved the way to the nomination. Yet one never knows what the future holds.

If we're going to leave then we're going to have to leave now. I risked anger, I made unexpected changes. The speakers you brought are fantastic. A poem comprised of four letters. Did I mention the mail?

If you're going to leave then please leave now. A clean sharp break is needed. Also lessons in elocution. Evolution? We fall backwards almost always.

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