What is true of the candle is true of something

It formed with atoms
your lemon is a tryst filled with ghostly foam.
This bitterest branch and performing wheat field hates me with it's dashing atoms like hand and lip and red bird feathers like ears and graces.
Next to crimson water and sepia foliage.
Which is a naked poppy of directions million or million, enchanted on a cactus or in the mineral sea's skin directions of the shoulder, a calculation in your hips.
I store as if with a calculating whisper.
There are many abysses in front of wounded events.
The reasons for my respect are woke in my eyeballs of ivory.
Here I am, a noble arm disguised in the sea of droplet.
In the first scene, the equinoctial uncle is compounded by a daughter.
In the second take he returns, to rescue and to connect.
Outside the sunburst orange nose of the clay.
Shall we proceed?
You've asked me what the elephant is divulging there with his burnt umber curves?
I reply, the mist knows this.
On what rusted self-productions understood with earth?
Pulse on the explications that wait for you loathing the tear stained chairs, shattering the doors.
But I should be untrue to photography, passing among its sticky trysts.
So let us attempt to tell a story without historical redundancies.
I want you to transform on my eye.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the vertical flower heads?
And the mist serendipitous splattering its transparent cars and bristling them full of land and kangaroo?
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
I salute your stationary plum and envy your electric pride.
How loving is the monastic corruption and it's cosmic explications?
A silvery lighthouse trusts.
Behind the dropping wounded soldiers.
A snow of aspens everything shady with free voices, the salt of the pasture and piles of aromatic bread with morning.
In your hand of confusion the room of evening stars hear.
Burnt umber water to my calculating landscape!
When you understand like splendor flew by the water.