Ferdinand was forever his brothers brother. over plains of heartache with the family and the job. the abuse from the wind. the sun. the terraine. the sundaies. the two step of it all. good. fair. forgiving.
Misty sat with moons crossed her legs. she still waits.
"aint nothing i aint". she spoke as she sat on benches for parks and shades of trees that she doesnt care about saving. she isnt a "green" party. she is ultimately, saliently, forever her own. and god isnt it great that she fishes that hook out of that fish's mouth. we all bless her, over prepositions of tables that we cant quite sit at.
Ferdinand mumbles over mornings. he longs for the sleep. yet.
he is content. enough. for now. He quiets himself, breaths. a sandwich. mustard.
Seventeen times it took to get the response is the exact division of how much he cared for her times the square root of 1077. there is a contemplation of numbers. distractions. additions. acquaintances. appearances. forevers. alwayses and nevers. but all of that satisfaction that is wrought to surface it all up comes across like giving money to some ol wreck at a bar without the desire to bed. oh sweet next to. god thank us for all our squalor.
i'll arrange the bet.
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