All the orchards bloomed with innocuous parties, there loomed a large and unfriendly table cloth above their freshly opened eyes. They had expected a wild night of fun & frolic, but none dared open their eyes to this large table cloth that loomed. They were under its translucent magnitude, green, blue and black eyes all blinded by its soporific brilliance. Saved only by the deep sea under their feet they stumbled in cryptic circles holding bum cheeks and what not to preserve their mental calculations. The eerie orchard air expected a yield from these poor stumbling fools, who you might say were no more important than flatulent fruits that have gone off sailing into idyllic horizons.
Those fruits labored intentionally towards becoming light and frothy. A heady mix of sweet odors and mulch, to be frowned upon from lofty pulpits. Long tunneling visions, the prevailing darkness filling up tooth cavities and hollows of the body. Sweat clinging to musty walls and air unmoved for time unknown. Voices speak too loudly in this echo well. Wide wisdom bells clanging in the distance, some people know what time it is. Your vision never clogs up or dries, like they say, festoons and ribbons in your mouth little girl. Why do you beat me with that stick?
Speaking in bird voices. Is it a last resort for the lost voice, rejected and thrown into its dream bed, left to float on endlessly, looking and hoping for material transactions that will bring it back to life. Each nectar filled kernel despises the tool used for grinding out treaties of justice spells.
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