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"I was struck immediately with the essence of the piano pieces, |
Dear Eisoptrophobia, kissing clenched hands... ...fluttering and whispering ever dreams, a little gilt smiling and nodding nearly twelve years of another bed. This is nothing flooded with delight and amazement, the solemn minuet too, performed by the hand. slowly down she walked, madly through the open window notorious, sunning herself on the shrill laughter of Violets... and, his hand upon his heart. back you go, into your soul that would only recompense care by forming the source of little skeletons. Witness trembles streaked with chill touches certain, and little curtains of gauze in silence caught sight, guessed where should you imagine not to speak, under glass surrounded lost in admiration of light scattered, in its own face laughed back at it. a portrait led into mirrors, their hearts, the quick magic of their letters gives hands traverse, memories left in mirrors, ceilings wing into the velvety soul, but also the animal itself, they were not among the twined skeletons filled with shadows for the sun does not dissolve and yet sight reaches the mirror. it is not any correspondence between figures from the purpose of playing, whose end, abruptly as if it is of delight. - Akira Rabelais we quarreled and makes this the virtue, of which to see is true beauties swallow infinite multitude, laughed and of destruction, in fresh colour of worse than there are painless, weaving wreaths of the table, what I put heart swelled portentous bridge, across the air and emptiness over eyes, whose company of windmills, the bird skulls and poured out, experiencing the hour of stars and thinking without haste, water, stones, plants altogether, that I should choose rather through strange words of learning and lies ascribed gone to be let to save stayed, so you become of bread and abundance of axiomatic truth, personal presence of metaphor, whether there is essence and believe that kept treasure on of exciting in ecstasies more astonished, bodies of all with and here, here further, here whirlwinds, everything carefully preserved until the end, against the same infinite abyss and before the effect of a wearied corruption, our broken staircases toward noises, least part of objects inside the ear has no other sound, bruise up a question, for the hour is time itself above the humming in your own one of the corpse already crossing a wood, branches pattern in seconds stumbling through sitting quietly, truth of this will never cease to call the eye, restlessness of knowledge here to penalty of human being, thickest darkness now light signified, opaqueness of persuasion all of rising perpendicularly placed beyond and unweariedly, in the most eagerly to wield the corpse, these steps tracing back to trudged, going up to discern, given and pronounced, erudition on sighs, stories-unbecoming to steep hill become disarranged hair and fatal throne, I suppose you as subjected to the clear deep, wing no more near the same there saying with human voice that a place where for some nameless stone, a name, here are angels of me. |
