Sur le Balatum at the torn joint, mouth with bloodless lips, the galena post scrapes some hisses. The jungle pisses in the gray dawn, the rutted track from Savannakhet to Saigon dispersing the convoy such lace hiccups. The heavy thoughts are reflected making ghosts sparkle in iron galoshes assembled in front of the temple with belching tigers. The flat boats in the fumaroles of the river form sfumato behind the lanterns gently swaying under the chirping coat of mosquitoes. With a half-shut cry awakening is instantaneous under the suddenly living foliage when the vibrating arrow hit the gold button.
The shock is harsh fire sending from the bottom trinkets and sweets accumulated over a lifetime on the front of wanderings. may we exposed to tests name the bridge of memories glorious arch joining what was in the depths of our being.
