Held high, including some of the untethered, Lee comes from a lost and cleft-left field, against the grain and with the wind, yet a steadied follow-film and finding the rhythms. An approach often only acted upon by the fly pitched to the wall, further waiting, as the traveler or a dayglow witness. With one forced-hand, more than fevered, the contrasting-vowelled sounds upon syllabic-steppe he bears only feel favorable in your clear low-rumbled stretch of voice, best said hushed, cemetery-still and obituarily aloud.
im not obsessed with death, I just needed the sounds those words make. dare ya to record yourself reading this and listening to the gurgled bubble nature and plied rapids.
lost at sea.
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