Human was the music, natural was the static.
Fraud makes the world go round.
The Florida sun seems not much a single thing overhead but a set of klieg lights that pursue you everywhere with an even white illumination.
But it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it's fatal not to go through with it.
It is in middles that extremes clash, where ambiguity restlessly rules.
Hope bases vast premises on foolish accidents, and reads a word where in fact only a scribble exists.