Two fold outside stretching beyond the green lines moving past the layers of sand. The roots are plowed, throbbing brown veins urging the sediments to clog away from their cellular-lungs. All around the brown pressing, pressurizing with vocalizations sounds that condemn the silent. Give away to a null of classification that rinses out the fungus raid.
By days jump on the frail paper. Traces of dribbled red ink. Imprinting a dead syllable all surround imitating the ring of death.
Then you see as far you eyes could believe. Without glasses I fumble seamstress chatting over the streams.
Regurgitating the spineless wings approaching nearer with every thud on the breast.