Sunday, February 28, 2010

oyster pattern

 Jill woke  it was the night. A night of many 'frosted' pains. Something had happened she crossed the narrow river. Death beat a hasty retreat its footsteps crossing down the corridor |

Was the whispering resurrection subervion a scenemic changement de cœur. She lost her french language. A better parole than her own existed. March was the festival of gloom and doom fog and clad something and other streets. It was fair to midlands bad film.A cheap flick a tawdry half sister, baked bread, dark coffee, a stringent potion of mlike , health at worsts, a truant begining, a season of assassinations and rump states. But two lovers, in 'recent' schizoanalysis was better.

              If she lived in the coastal planes it was better than North of the country. Of disaster and desire? She was handmaiden to the Lord thus.