can hear remnants of a corrupt tree on the stony heights of the traces of drunk stabbed, panties the nun kissing Christ. I fly mortality, skin peeling seasonal ground for flies, the sources dried bone cracking the relentless chirping of the morning. I advance the footprints and the flowery fields in flames fleshy, carriages stop dying for a pint of wine, the butterflies crushed by small hands give their last farewell to one third of their antennae, stray dogs shake their ticks to ostentatious Mercedes Benz, grandmothers give a shout out to abandoned shipwrecks in their wombs, a girl runs barefoot on a burning field of sunflowers, a young escape to the sounds within a coastal seafood. The cliff is orange, and blue dreams, thoughts swirling, and orchestras shake the trees to the nerve curves of your spine. Sea foam lips shelters us and pursues us beat wave, wind the hair and shakes us throw our sorrows as waste to the peaks of the gulls. The abysmal vein of the leaves is the shelter where we dip our feet and where, from time to time, send messages bread crumbs into the boats and dream of destiny. Resting on the branch of a eucalyptus, a giraffe burn the heavens and we think the fury of the salmon, in the spiral bound to our necks in the shadow of an embrace in the pursuit of parchment dispersed between the grains of the beach , in pursuit of the index to the thumb, the tingling sound of the lashes in the rocks, waving pelicans striped breaking the dull sky sparkled with brief rain of feathers.
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