I’m not real.

That’s so true.

That it’s a lie.

Which way would the wind blow.

If I.

Don’t even ask me.

You know what.

Foxes don’t need forms.

Chase a sunbeam.

The cold ground is granular.

Dirty globes are solipsistic.

They stand alone.

Columns for a pyre.

The flower of mercy warms with flames.

Askew the tinder asks.

Foxes do not focus.

Scattered leaves pull the ground towards heaven.

Wills are made of roots entangled.

Chocking on tomorrow.

Only lithe fleet foxes lick the dew.

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