…and the empire falls soft, on shoulders of yours, and many
others of. Skipping it’s own nature in girths imposed. World.
Life. Tried, lived, perhaps, in states of Brooklyns and Jesus of Slavs.
In states of the empire of girths, and high of the Not, and the others…
…and the empire falls short, of shoulders of mine, and many
other of yours. Velocity. Volume. Voice muted. Mind. You
arms spread, me. Me. You and me it boils down to. The scent
the feel, places different. Distinct and not. Tell me! Voices.
For Gabriel pipe’s sake….