Another life. Another one.
Stepping through and under the wires this time. A wise decision. Heading off at the pass. Taking procedure. Better now.

You can spot the errors. Getting better.

Food for the soul.

And a triangle means more than three or a letter, but yet to find that. It is behind the grind, seeking homer. Long and crisp. Into the night's dark. Stolen for a line until it's energy is sucked up by the air and its particle mass. Making lines seen more powerful from a distance.

And it changed before it was witnessed by a glass eye.

The bells rang in time. The bells the bells.

Oh and the oranges spit smells across carriage holes. Into the empty nostrils of flued workers heading home after another day thinking about the next.

When will we all just detach and float off the surface of the planet? When will we?