Sketch season

Now it's still a warm, lukewarm daze.
Dressed in a morgue, getting the gray sky. clouds of cotton candy vented out of themselves the broken drops of their grief. The late-zigzagging injection needle tips of lightning do not split: Although ominous breezes still explode, they secretly pop up here and there.

The unchanging buzz of the end of summer ripens on the branches. Autumn kisses its green scaly fires with its imit-amott flames: their bodies are threatened by the price of digestive fire! Beyond that on the Mountain of Birds rest three balding aggastyan kings: and their mountain ranges are gently and veinily connected like tired and limp muscles on the barren surfaces of their bodies.

Now everything is, can and will be! - It is a happy consciousness of safe satisfaction. I have nothing but my self-conscious hope of forcibly pulling me out of the mud and setting it up: I will - yes - my work and the wolf laws of the world will no longer trample on me, and I will not mortally injure me!

It would have been good to moor in the revived era of existence, and to settle down on a reciprocal lottery run: I accepted Loneliness as an unexpected traveler, a grateful guest, and I do not expect to thank only envious scolding.

on the scraped debris of my infinite days I am still reading the eternal and immortal Truths of the letters! - I'm feeding my food, but with increased hypochondriac diet mania! "In the morning, you just get out of bed with a ball and grumble grimly."

I could only see the morning star again, and in it lost my sweetheart in blunders!