Thing in heart, flushing, rushing, hiding its frightening abstract of dynamic timelessness, it shall and will be brought on. Words, words, oh shut them without, cannot be under words, have it now the fore, so there is a bit left in till.
Mynd the focality, drag up the more, if it, if it, have not tyme to fair it out. The heart, wound not by sinew, bound so by endless reachings, available forethoughts, giving abouts the tymeless even.
Drag it up the more, man, for contagion, tis glorious the instant, the flowings between spirit and the solitude, ought the ought fro.
Thy visual taste its presence, draw it forth the bit, and recognize the somethings of naught.