A letter involved in windy Tangier. Givens in sequence until extra ace, with spies attending, plans to be somehow evocative. Truly worried yet also the summer winds down to a point on the tip of a blade of grass. no preposition remains, just the attitude that something depends. So in Tangier, a little exercise of prevailing winds. Boats scuttle as they must, and tired beggars look for a night job.
Muttering outside that, into a child expressing doubt about foxes, remains many crows of the opinion. Suddenly the soft interest of mowing lawn. Grass as Vatican. Walk to work in the morning, to find work as a trunk in the middle of the road. Expressly put there was the excuse.
Meanwhile, in a sense, cinnamon scent engulfs the streets and traces of Tangier. Attention is a paying customer.
A tangy pang of endlesness swamps miracle boats.
Frequency itself becomes a marvel. One stands amidst diversity, only to crow about certain facts. Foxes slip thru the bazaar, nearly assumed as after effects. This person here is William S Burroughs. a slice of something, if only for the moment. Raids will take care of active research. Mousing amongst mildewy canvases and manuscripts, until a history pries open the door. A sense of disdain comes and goes.
They just haven't figured out the prize. Certainty is uncommon. Maybe a portrait for later will suffice.
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