A cluster of orchestral harps, a heap. Gallowing waves of artifice dust are now inbound. A chain-link lynx chain, no specific region; no specific region required. Two quarters and a penny–worth irrelevant. The lunar year of the horse, every year. Described in two colors: perhaps coffee. An relaxing game of billiards with a curious colocolo. The everlooping melody of a voice you thought you’d forgotten, no more eye contact, please. The ethereal fibers of being alternating between a gilded silk and an earthly ombré. Lustrous windows that cloud when you’re around, have you tried not being a worthless sad-sack? Outstretched hands towards the clouds in the field of what once was. In a little while, they’ll be gone.
Rhinestone rivers of intertwining interconnections between those who’ve never met. The business that John wishes he would have started when he had the chance, you can only pray you will not become as helpless as he has. The echoing ripple of the wrongful. A lone bear dances in the wintery woods. The consequences of flipping a coin one too many times. A long list of the years you’ve lost. Long-expired backstage passes, world’s least-reflective mirror, and a small bowl of chocolate candied whatevers. Emergency landing gear that pops at the sound of your keys jing-jingalinging. If you weren’t such a dullard, that’d be you on the television.
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