the sun goes home early while the wall blush and the flowers remain on the ground. You wanted to kill a god for color verdefalso spring that has no blood. in half a day off so as not to see. you stop being a god but then does not contradict the dreams faded as people return. convince yourself that the stories end before you start. unstitched edge of things in the rain brings you back to lisbon . but not enough to keep the autumn liar. where they denied the revelations that come back as clouds Catholic. so life will not take you dead and bound in the face. inotropic afternoons. and then compel god to be a coward future. while prudence is damp, dark home. geography of the flight down with us. amniotic afternoons. with despair sweat elegant. buy smiles dangerous but do not know why. the steady hand and clear in front of the mouth. your eyes under the orange glow of the alarm stay hot. and steeply lower. they call phosphenes best of my hands. Thoughts clothes. "Invernobrillante the dead" and other "gifts burned." thirsty plugs into syllables. eversions the naked eye between devices. when we look, but still. and as long as you let go. an entire week on the verge of vomiting. maybe you can heal but when it's just a god. for a season presumably conscious . unbounded in a window. for one reason
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