ALEX CRUSE

The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.

--Edmund Spenser, Epithalamion

“i know,” thought the new satellite. using porcelain, all the salt at the edge of the earth’s falling, grasping fearful slobbering fistfuls of your nerves. you’ll never be born.  a skull covered the rotting that’s necessary. signals a curious autumn. i don’t dream anymore. i’ve seen many things; we have given too much.  loved, cared for years. it’s hard to say, if he’s of human mind. i’m on this planet because: blood, escaped from a living entity. gives birth to the human in a vibrating rod of the corp; gives birth to stay alive. gives birth to time. an architect. attire like a plague doctor. wearing one loosely: leaving naked and when you’re gone: they’re all my head would enable. ideals beyond reason, as lovers be uneasy -- those fully these, nay thing seems. gel visibly crawled her whisper; cures for having known him. water, bilge and death had in his life, outside normal opera. corresponding tropenes: that big deal with my skin. it was what i am throwing in the mouth of them. a culture of malformed conical tongues with the eternal weight of house; nine devious games of escaping it.

cf. M. Rudolph-Lilith's ChessY

margot watching crows