Three minutes later the tree thyme realised you harvested the light dark from the yellow leaves up in the halo basket. Ten little leaves in the palm of your hand, the light dark seeped into the pores of your face. 13 light-years a light-second, the tree thyme thought through the wanders to take you over the lip of your light opera, you bumping your vision of the wing mottle to the bugle, H notes re-rehearsing, from the bottom of your head. Twenty-two feathers belied you between the fifth spaces of the tines of the tree thyme, who said, " the scent oils leak in the oxygen over West Virginia. Tommy soup dreamed the year-long book, who said, ' Tim will now join you. ' "
The grean shoots blew brown. The blinks of the ever-vanishing realness of the tree thyme swayed on the film surface, away to grape held horizon black and white cat the thinnest hair touched end to end the lonely One and the You belonging to the you here and now with us.
The End
You think you might learn.
i imagine a Hair, in a close up you see it there, floating still.
this end touches a rocky coast, like california or scotland or something. it is like a magical electrical wire over an ocean. it is maybe thousands of miles long.
it is dark but no one sees it until a few inches away.
it is perfectly strait like it is another dimension here.
it reaches toward the infinite eternal reality of One who knows better.
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