control is organized into bits of jim. this jim falters like any other. this jim goes like a trip over to a sodden green field where so much happens in springtime. now the field turns grey. the grey redeems by closing in. bits of jim spread to transform: honk honk, that aint happening.
but wait mood, wait for time. and the piercing cry of lately, steams windows freely and then you gone. stare at the jim till not so fierce or free.
makes a burning study, says our jim.
a jim is rectangular.
a jim for once, with all the ploys attended.
then further jims, as motion towards resolution (like we all) yet tossed about stutter.
control is the jim byword, which stays insane.
sane isn't such a big drop either, of course.
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