the levels of grain intended for the barn, the silo, and field, and into bread and beer, dreamily cast about as tendency to remain, but close to violation every soft moment true to tell...
I could read his lips from across the room. No wonder everyone was reading something else. It's always something. Come to think of it, a self-contained expression peers mightily into the soul of the moment. Souffle of the Monument. Everyone surrounded, yet refused to join hands. How do I escape from what I've already commited to print.
WritingDubuffetsTitles | ISBN 82-92428-29-1