In a field near small bushes stood
gray stone booth of
gothic doors on all four sides, an all glass walled delvanator lift down hidden depths of abyss known to none save certain young men in turqoise shirts and kahki pants with hair shortcropped yet dishwater blond whose background was the third of Mendelsohn’s start, that misspoke adagio funereal first,
a grim metaphysic neolith protruding danceless plumes of bluish fumes in horizontal painful agony, sad voiceless throb beside itself with ironclad rust, mistrust pleading final failured love for which all poetic sentiment remains forth with all the inconsolable disconsolate, that deadened crush of priceless missing unglad sadness!

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