Whittling down the final for the rest of the year, recollection phases in a hazy barrage of time scales, temperate scores and dalliances in blinding lights bleeding the pupils beyond mere dilation.
Standing on the course to pass designer labels and leather boots, the mind races blank to conjure nothing more than dead stares at the grout lining the walls between this and the other. Fringe across the way looking only suspicious, pretentious and nothing more.
Staring bears no fruits into the collation and order of time travel. A jump into the portal of lines and maze of allocation produces far from a semblance of an affair of solid footing.
Soon Van - Wednesday, 20 December 2006 - 22:19
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