Moral gravity raised its fairhaired head like a saturnalia amid the clouds, and brightsun threads spun in laughing sounds to echo the giggling parched earth baked brown of windwhistled stone and choirs of crackling forest floor scrunch broke all promise of happy rhyme of throaty song. For the wholesome joyzone claims the departing heat of dusk and trades its picturesque for vacancy, distance, sparse soul and rock. Til the garrish glowing nonsense of our swampland carnival arises like some crud encrusted phoenix as hope forlorn and pitiful parent of the yet to be born which already now only portrays vague memory of the trackless vast forever within. Thus the solemn thirst of hungered plunge into eating soil results the fateful downed recoil itself the crystal wonton dust become, where the last extracted fact is nothing here can grow but rootless up to searing sun.

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