Fly past long, straight-ground city

Car on snow, sped by on train speed. Fly past long, straight-ground city. I am instincts and long not instincts. Waste at thinking. Cops at waste time from. Full ducks at beauty. Hood at statue in this city. You can watch me stare at all sorts of levels without catching, because a lot of them are not active. I can watch them like you’d look at a picture. Only too bad not to touch them. Unless could use air, fill through air against their faces.

This is all there is for me. This is it. God at door close. God at door open. God at Enjoy, Italian, window. God at even odd. God of something messed up in slouch, in poor riders’ train with me, by paper. Last pig on paper.


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