Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
God is in me or else is not at all.
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.