Demons orbits above and all that remains is bastions of access, rarely
accesible even through experiment or another blow to the head.
Drones in the imagination -- an event in the extreme.
Their commotion, luster -- as a kind of loneliness, bulky robes over the
imagination.
Just a fibrillation (2).
The demons becoming comets knocking against the head.
Drink one and you shall see -- milk is pavement (3).
It pins you down as stars go out.
Pinpoints (4) are limousines slinking across the sky.
To distrust them is simply to imitate at a gradually reduced speed.
And reduced to the point where all one listens for is the music
Is the music rivaled only by spin.
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(2) Not a conception of time wasted.
(3) Crossword.
(4) Cloudbursts.