Dance All Days

on top of it all, the haze of certain snow lifts. straight train of tragic information, but then the mountain looks as small as a table. what can one read in the crying out alone when the sun isn't different ever? that you make the list and the list makes you,m perhaps. breathing creates some things and offers autumn on our backs. we can walk away from the summit we sought. it was, after all, reclining in a mood that kept us there. now agreeably, as narrative makes clear, tho narrative should be discharged, we have this steely effort trapped by John Bonham's drums. his noise should make clear that sentences end, if not in time. seems a little senseless to start them, when you study the inviting map. nuclear war comes shiny and new, taught to us by eager landslides. trouble leaves the mountain, proper to the discussion. darkest fears are just the table we said we had. Nepalese masterplan runs against, say, another bunching challenge. good for the years, and stumbling down the slope. that nation of pride that exhausts the statues and creates the literal in textbooks, story bent to told: it's the love that stays the same. after ringing these charms of implementing danger, we hear that the whole world spells trouble with divine. are we still the United States of Dispatch? that's as grim as peaks still muddy by trying pronouns. thin air in the valley, too.