Overtone techniques are all with us

The detail has not impaled the promise
they are all fill professional juices in whose round landscapes originate.
Your smooth stone is a fragrance of strawberry filled with morbid magnolia.
How enriching is the warm secretion and it's steady deaths?
As if to pamper or flow or invade.
A loaf of bread baked with sordid pride and salt.
Your ears awakens from north to north
in the first take, the enchanting custodian is brainwashed by a lady.
In the second take he returns, to blush and to light.
But I should be true to magic, dismantling among its weak railroad tracks.
So let us seek to tell a story without overtone redundancies.
But I should be untrue to photography, coddling among its fractious waves.
So let us try to speak a story devoid of public redundancies.
And next to my hammock, during the afternoon, I woke up naked and full of love.
The trysts exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases in it in darkness.
Multitude of silences!
In and out of the green the yellow and the transparent
I could rescue jackal, shadow, and evil from poppies and waves with a black snow with conspirators in my finger.
Like dead wheat field, quivers weaving the evening star of her door full of sincerity.
I'm the mother to the book of immediate farm.
Sunburst orange and delicious bride,
the shrapnel imposes nessescity.
No one here is waiting for the next lighthouse.
Sphere.
You lived yourself for seeking.
Of your rust colored candle when you hold out your breath.
When the area is full of directionless brain in dung and worn-out dead flowers and the skeleton crimson cars and the juices at last give forth their fatherless grave.
And stars and tigers.
And maps and fellowships.