out of the water, the water of ghost pools,
you rose, naked figurehead, oh, flower of night.
an impressionist's brush shook the water
like light reflected on moonstone.
****** of prisms, flowering, flowering,
lost ocean of star voices, forgotten star.
you sang and the night ran towards the sea,
you blossomed and the night became a wanderer.
nectar of the gods, sky-visionary, you sink into
the night like the petal of a rose, the grass almond-
eyed and whispering to you her dreams, fluttering
like a butterfly; little moonflower, you gather
the shadows and the song of the dark, the
drift of the clouds is your bare feet running,
the drift of the clouds, the cold sea crashing
in the harbour, the drift of the clouds,
the incredible overflowing of sky, poet-
ink and straying hair, the drift of
the clouds, everything that scatters
like you on the wind.

i stood there waiting like a
nettle with the moon's forget-me-not
eyes, wild flowers overflowing
down the little paths, i was the flower that
no one wanted, a black companion
****.
my cherry mouth was built of
forgotten orchards and swallow's wings,
while my hair was blown by the indigo wind,
the moon tap, tap, tapping on the door.

the whiteness of the land, the colours of
winter and how her song arose out of
the dark, bearing my soul like the
earth rediscovered, glistening in the
light, drawn out of hollows, the shadows
driven back, with a dry root's crazy thirst
that left me longing for rain.
the poetry could not quite free itself
from my lips, dragged me down to
the earth where i staggered with
the lost and the weary. i tried to get back,
but all i could do was sink into the frozen waste.
no, the poetry would not free itself, and
still i waited but it didn't seem to matter
now because leaf and moon and the
frosting that covered my body had left
me like a pale ghost in the wilderness
and all i wanted to do was sink into
the cold cornered night, sink and forget.

winter buries her flames,
buries whispers of river and leaf,

the sea wraps turquoise into bronze,
everything is full of white bones,

the sky is an illusion of clouds,
her petticoats blue rags,

the day is as heavy as a paperweight,
as brittle as a glass flower,

the light is as naked as the trees
gold could not be more cold,

the sunlight reflects in the snow,
her amber eyes gleam,

nothing flows, nothing flowers,
nothing flows, nothing flowers,

and your smile is the sun,
a ghost as faint as watercolour,

the brush dipped in daylight,
a little part of me.

this was a song that lingers in caverns and
caves, scented by sea rose and anemone,
lost kingdoms where we dream of the sea.

this was a song like a whale shivering
through the water, diving into the
impossible dark, with its huge tail
waving, flag-like and star-hungry,
its skin the moon's lips, in a world
with no moonlight, no brightening pools,
and only echoes of a forgotten sun.

how deep do we dive, seals of ink
and overtures of unanswerable
dark? our eyes have been betrayed
many times and the water buries us
whole, takes us to the staccato rhythms
of a ghostly tide, takes us back to
a womb woman whose prayers lie
like whispers on the water, who tells
us to hush and we hear our mother's voice.

these are wild notes that press into the
waves, and i am frightened of this song,
it is dissonant and gathered from the
rivers of night, her tombs overgrown with
wild flowers and the bones of the sea,
and she cries for the lost,
for those that were taken from her,
and she will cry for all eternity
and her tears are like breath of ice.

summer casts her spell
man cuts reeds for thatch
swallows under eaves.

a bird slid into the wind's
bright paths, awoke
the sound of morning, the
only elegant sound. i sprinkled you
you with the roots of the rain and
with a song sweetened by
sunlight and although you were stunted
and your blue-blossom wings were broken,
and the very earth swam in dark
floods of tears, that little piece of
love was a kingdom as reachable
as your hand touching mine.

my love, you wear silence like a coat
and i am left drifting like a far-out wave.
the wind tangles leaf and sky.
winter is barely noticed, the moon
is a ghost of forgotten flowers where
the night sings to the starry waters,
sings of our love. everything is sailing
like a ship in a bottle, a kaleidoscope  
of brightness, gothic hill and wildflower
ruin, flowing like a silvery stream.
do you dream of me? do you burn when
the night wraps you in her cloak and the moon
unwinds the waters of the seas?
do you dream of me?

she wore a dress of silk that day
a coral comb set in her hair
to dress her curls a dark array
all black as night, as cold as air.

a sweet seductress so beware!
no man could ever win her charms
her beauty was a vision fair
a hellish haunt that death disarms.

she walked towards her lover's house
her soul was calling out to him
as quiet as a timid mouse
her pounding heart all silent sin.

for he was flesh and he was bone
and she a ghost, a cold temptress
and in her hair she wore a comb
to match the silk of her blue dress.

so how could any man resist
her ghostly spirit, cold as night
as if the very moon that kissed
the soulful sky that shone so bright

was hunting, searching night for him
her lover waited, knew her near
her ruby lips, the lanterns dim
in distant dreams she would appear.

she wore a dress of silk that day
a coral comb set in her hair
how could she so her love betray?
i'll tell the tale and climb the stair...

the moon a phantom all despair
he shook and then a deathly cry
she cut his throat, this vision fair
and flew from him across the sky.

they buried him beneath a tree
his life that languished at her hand
and now i'll end this fantasy
of ghoulish love in spirit land!

beware the witch, beware the knell
where ghosts do flaunt the midnight cold
for devil's pave the way to hell
and steal the souls that darkness sold.

winter fed us with blood-red berries and ice clouds,
our visible breath soon colder than our lips.
i did not want to see what you had seen,
could not grow out of those sad, sad eyes.
we fell into the calm wave of circumstance
and twilight hurried from us into the dark.
hurried away like the last drop of sunlight
purples the earth, dancing on the edge of the world.
do we wait, stone-heavy, for the last tendrils
of day to melt like ice?
the fearful cold breathes like a fog,
gathers its stars of voice and hill,
gathers memories and distant dreams,
lets us forget.
are you the ghost that lies on the hill
calling to me?
are you that ghost,
whose irons soften like cloud,
whose frozen leaf trembles on the branch
waiting to fall to the whispering land?
your eyes are from the past and yet
they follow like a cold wind blasts.
your eyes, everywhere your sad eyes,
biting like a frost.

the ocean dreams...
colours like burnt kisses,
the blue mist tangles the air.
the shore shook out its creases
like old linen, fell under
the tumbling wave.
i drank the silence,
walking where the moon,
carried along by the song
of a ripple, dipped
her feet in the foam,
dancing, dancing...
beneath her ivory tongue,
a glistening jewel,
her alabaster skin
night's whitest rose,
and where the stars
wrapped december in
ghosts and the
gleaming water was the
quietest echo of love,
i could no longer bear
to be alone, and my tears
were the wilderness
and how it grew inside me,
and everything i loved was there
the wave carrying the wind
and i felt alive, as joyful
as the silver shore, a dark-pooled
painting of you, a river-eyed song.

you wrap the stars around my shoulder blades
place the night on my lips, listen for summer
and whisper day-moons and gothic hills,
bend like the willow dreams of old, sad songs.
your ghost is the rhythms of a sigh,
is a planet stunned by the dark-lashed sea of skies,
an enigma where the pools empty turquoise
and topaz, where we fall - how we fall.

i ask you how the water cries, how you hold
the tide, the light, the thin light glistening.
i ask you how you bury root and earth,
how you dress the wind, how you carry
clouds in your mouth, how you drift
out of morning's ghosts, sky full,
how you drift downstream taking
part of me with you. i ask and i ask.
why do you not answer me? tomorrow
stretches her wings, tomorrow with her
tremendous oceans of fire, her dark eyes
full of hope while part of me dies.
no furnace could burn like you burn,
every whisper the dark, the infinite dark,
and that little flame hovering like a bird
a paradise higher than stars.

grey stone sky, ghost clouds crying to the wind,
remembering the distant wave.
the moon was the whitening mists of time,
was the quiver of a musical note,
her broad branches silver seas,
her caverns quiet visions of light.
i stride the shores of oblivion where
dark ages hide, where the ocean falls,
i capture infinite moons in my
mouth, capture something bright,
something of you that i bless,
something of you that grows out
of the dark, glimmering like a night frost,
midnight stars dipped in a clear lake
and as the surface gleams and reflects,
how the water ripples in little blue tides.

out of the night, the softening rain dripping
from leaves and memories hanging like stars
in a northern sky, everything sank to the sea,
sinking in night and song and silence.
everywhere was still, no climbing to the dawn,
no old ghost singing winter to the sky.
it was time to leave, time for the grey ghosts
to crumble, time for the rose beds to sleep.
the morning dew is the water's flowers,
the early frost is the marbling of the earth,
we're pushed to emptiness by the iron-hinged wind,
melt in caves where the shadows lie hid.
from your hair, the glistening drops of rain,
from the air, the flight of a bird,
terrible and black the dark clouds,
where the night utters vowels its voice full of stones,
and its breath an empty pail once filled
with water and the kiss of the moon.

the moon, shrunken, faint
as pencil, as if the wild nettles
of night carried her loads.
her glazes the raptures of
dancing stars.
her stencil mark a white crescent
leant on cloud.
the trees shudder in the
wind, break their promises,
forgive no one.  
the tide listens to her rhythms,
traps them in water, distils
her victories, unwraps the dark,
stretches it out.

"where love is a wave that splashes on the sand"

when a heart
loves
the stars surrender
to the heavens,
the moon catches her breath
and the avenues
of silence become
voice. i follow the
path to my love,
i die for him,
i live for him,
like a spartan
in the heat of battle,
like a flower in the
mist.

i've not written for a week.
i need to visualize, feed
on an image, grow out of
immense distance, slumber
on the rocks.
i need to paint a flower
in all its frailty, gather
the skies on the horizon.
until the bright lilies
have drowned me in their
white linens i will not feel whole.
gathering, gathering the world,
its moments stormy rooks.

"when everything is washed out like faded jeans"

i thought i could stay alive
but there were shadows on my bones,
summer fell through my lips
and washed the colours from my shirt.
i became a lizard in the
dry heat.

the sky layered greys into
clouds, told me how
expressive it could be
and then turned white.
i wasn't going to argue
but i liked it better blue!

when your heart is
full of softness it gathers
the flowers of dusk.

the sea is so far from me
now, how can i remember
a wave or the bluster of
the wind?
i am as forgetful of
shape as foam, i am
as broken as driftwood,
i am the memory of
something that never was,
an impromptu impressionist
painting in ink.

"where love is a song settling in the night"

you were the softness of feathers
and the harsh cadence of grief,
you were the sky’s frail mists
and its glittering pools.
in the warm indigos of summer
i welcomed you home,
the sea with its engine pistons
played loud harmonics,
it wasn't the noise but quiet
i wanted most, the way i wanted you,
star silent, drifting like a boat.

sweet bird of budding april's pretty wing,
sat in the willow where the catkins grow,

enchanting like the river's winding flow,
small chatterbox that always loves to sing,

the blossoms kiss the sky whose wandering
finds vast crusades where fleeting warriors go,

true to their loves e'en in the bleakest snow,
or some princess who finds a sapphire ring.

enchanted lands, the bird sings in the tree,
so long forgotten once found near and far,
where streams wind yonder where the bluebirds play,

on honey branches by the windswept sea,
as if they whispered underneath a star
of princely gold the beauty of the day.

clouds of pink on the cherry sigh,
sweet, whispering flowers fall and fall,

they lie upon the mossy wall,
clouds falling from a pink-sea sky,


flowers of the wind, confetti, rice,
papery stream like a pressed dry rose,

blossom song, the tireless breezes blow,
bewitching bower of cherry-flower ice.


a stream of melancholy green,
dances through the shades of the trees

the pink blooms sweep the river's breeze,
dry on stones, cherry-petal scenes....

none of the head angels liked looking
after the flowers. there was never enough
water in heaven for them.

then ian dream remembered:

go under the meadow
over the wave

you will arrive at station 4
press the blue button
and the flowers will automatically
be watered.

tea the angel rushed to try it out.
he pressed the blue button
and the springs for the flowers flowed.

the flowers in heaven started singing
with happiness and it was so beautiful
everyone cried.

the river overflows down to the sea,      
a wintry song to tame the reveled night,
and born of love the stars blaze ever bright,
with soft-ringed beams that sigh like poetry.
dark woven hour, how you inspire me,
the midnight gleams with pools of paean light,
the drowsy moon is shining filmy-white,
the woodlands shrink and dream of sanctuary.
arise on arching wings, oh, song once sung,  
oh, water sprite, oh, lily of the vale,
you pine for love, the forest weaves a spell,
unearthly voice of honey throat and tongue
  i hear you whisper, sing your wild, wild tale,      
  then bid the world goodbye and sweet farewell.

i stare to sea where autumn's night-winds tease
and sea waves crash and run with all their fire,
i feel a sense of rest that doesn't tire,
caught up in sea-rose reds and heady breeze
and like the fiery waves and sea-blown trees
this love of flames that once burnt with desire
now nothing seems, all fallen though once higher
than love's sweet dream that waking quickly flees!
oh, love's sweet dream! the metronome-like waves
beat like a pulse, a love of moon and tide,
the whispered song has faded, bitter-sweet
and drowsy as the water near my feet,
magnolia now blooms near these old graves
and i no longer yearn to be his bride.

the hidden staircase fascinated me,
the wooden steps, oak panels on the wall,
behind an unexpected door you couldn’t see,
a narrow entrance in the spacious hall.
who ever would have thought to find it here,
a masterpiece of silent secrecy,
whose trepidation full of pounding fear
climbed up those stairs in frightened urgency?
while candles drip hot wax from chandeliers
they gallop in the night, the carriage wheel
leaves furrows in the mud, whose trembling ears
await the sweeping toll-bells heavy peel?
and as the night drifts ever closer in,
who bolts the windows, deafens out the din?

i’ve blown all my dosh
on a brand new Bosch!
my clothes will be super clean
with this amazing new machine
i’ve burnt all my dosh
singing swish, swash, swosh,
singing splish, splash, splosh,
a ladies got to wash!
i’m in love with my new Bosch!

boy, i give you a blowing rose,
a glittering star,

the autumn shakes and glides,
hangs on leaves, waters the
sun,

the stars tremor in the water,
breathe of sky and silver bird,

the night is a closed eye, a
river of frost,
where the dark, born
of root and winding dream,
stretches like a flower,

in our love we found a
leafy woodland lane,
we strided the skies like
birds of dream,

love hung from our lips,
the white ribs of the breeze
holding our burning hearts,

love so raw it flowered,
opening out like an origami
swan,

the shadows lengthen,
dissolve into wooden gate
and hollowed out tree.

the night’s stones weigh
heavy like the cloud -

everything sinks.  

the cry of a bird -
eerie like a ghost -

the night speaks
of autumn, of windows
now shuttered to the
stars, of leaves painted
silver and gold.

a cat wires his claws to the
dark, drops down from a wall,
lands with his fur full of sky.

through distant isles i searched for him
my only love, my one true knight,
and i a spirit, silver-haired,
a ghost of night.

oh, he was battle scarred and worn
from long crusades in foreign lands
and through parched deserts still i roam
the wind-blown sands.

i'll not forget him, never rest,
until i've whispered in his ear
undying love through moon-blanched lips
and held him near.

oh, hear me crying like the wind
through every forest, every sea,
i walk the earth, a phantom shade,
unceasingly.

and snow is cold but not as chill
as the iced ****-frost of my breath
the taste of winter in my kiss,
a wraith of death!

i'll wrap him in my gauzy limbs,
ignite the fire in his vein,
encircle him in clouds of mist
and free my chain.

through distant isles i searched for him
my only love, my one true knight,
and i a spirit, silver-haired,
a ghost of night.

the sea with her songs and her freedom,
a rose in the desert tonight,

while the night with her beauteous wisdom,
holds the sky like the wings of a kite,


the moon is a ghost white and eerie,
skies carry the bird’s weary cry,

while the clouds dream of rain, brimming teary,
with each hollow sigh.


our love lies like ash long departed
and freedom's the wilds of the coast

and the sky where the swallow once darted,
has no star with their silvery frost,


oh, lover no love then could ever
be wiser or bolder than ours,

or lost as quickly with each new endeavour,
bewitched like the flo'ers.



so lover i wait here forever,
where the waves of the blue ocean swell,

a bride to the storm and the ether,
my song the sea's silvery knell,


for the muse sings of darkness forever,
and dark is the song ever sung,

and the sea finds its bow and its quiver,
and air fills her lung.


i'll wrap all my dreams in white paper,
and carefully tie with a bow,

then lay them all out with the ashes,
that lie where the wild berries grow,


and no one will ever e'er find me
and i will be lost in the end,

torn under the coast where the seas be
the voice of the land.


night grows from the death of the evening,
evening carries her stars and her seas,

the morning without ever seeming,
delights the bright sighs of the breeze,


dark voice of the sky and the landscape,
dark eye of the turbulent sea,

moon emperor, discoverer, wan dreamscape,
love jealous and free.

in this life fwoah dream destroyed the demons by saying "the magic number is three" aka the livin, aka boz the destroyer, my son's, favourite number. i heard them all blow up like some wild firework display all around the earth for about a month.

you know it's a demon when they start offering you a contract from behind some kind of wall. the trick is not to say anything in response as even saying 'go away' classifies as 'negotiating' which means they can carry on harrassing you. if you do not respond to the offered contract they then have to redo all their maths and offer you a new contract which they will repeat four times - usually the numbers involved stack up behind the name of the new contract which they will repeat 4 times and usually involve the number 4 and the number 7. if you still say nothing they have to leave you alone for 24 hours. expect them to get angry if they have to offer new contracts as they have to work out all their new numbers.

demons were originally fallen angels that bartered for peoples souls. this was all to do with peoples good and evil points which they could trade, but the demons became more and more evil and it was a silly idea anyway to barter with your soul.

question - when do you say the magic number is three if speaking to them classifies as 'negotiation'
the answer is you may say this after you have ignored them for an hour and then they will go up in smoke.

the only other thing you need to know about demons is you can only become a demon if you have *** with one.  

why i am posting this? it is useful information if you are being harrassed by demons and i think everyone should know what to do.

why does saying "the magic number is three work"? the demons can't survive the goodness in saying 'the magic number is three' after all the evil they have done with the number's 4 and 7. remember words are very powerful things.

good news in what is now called the energy zone in heaven and was called previously the artichoke under a forgotten prison beneath artichoke in heaven they have recently found forgotten books lost to the world and to heaven for thousands of years. their titles were as follows :


ian of china

life is always to be lived (4 copies only handwritten)
i will always be the husband of beth (chinese 400 copies handwritten)
love will always be my heart (4 copies handwritten)
love will never ever leave our lives (3 copies handwritten)
love is so pretty we want to enjoy it (200 bc 3 copies handwritten)

michael of constantine

all of us together (2 copies handwritten)
life is always life (4 copies handwritten)
treasure is my world (1 copy handwritten)

jim of persia

i am the one you want to love (5 copies handwritten)
love is always what we need (4 copies handwritten)
always always be kind (12 copies handwritten)
love is like a love (7 copies handwritten)
people should be friends (4 copies)
please try to be quiet (4 copies handwritten)
always be attractive if you can (5 copies handwritten)
i want to love my wife and you need to accept that fact (3 copies handwritten.)

the finding of these books gives me more confidence that the poetry i have written this time will survive my death and be remembered and is good news for everyone who loves books. these topics may seem cliched today but when written they were cutting edge of the thinking at that time.

“where summer’s bronzes dull and sink”

the trees are like
wet coat hangers,
holding up the leaves,

my cat is frosty like
an october morn,
sleeping on the sill,

everything is dripping
like a wet pair of
jeans taken out of the wash,

the sky wears its greys
of cloud, dim and dramatic
it opens summer eyes.

the forests of sun
lift their branches to the sky -
a stone fountain's tears.

the stream is a pretty
mirror, the sky, sweet
sister to the moon,
slumbers in her
arbour where roses
flower mightily, in
love with the night
and the cloud.

"where night is...the integrity
of the voyaging star..."


will flowers blossom soon in this
nearby petal-edged spring? the day

is full of buds, the night carries its ghosts,
the night-lily singing of magnolia and cloud.


in the sweet-breathed sky
the silver stars are like tiny pins,

my love is carved in their reflections,
i see his face in their waters,


our love still lasts, scented like the spring,
promising each other the ghosts of forever,

i could never let him go and now he says
he wants to die by the sea, in my arms,


and we create a new dream, out of night's
shadows, a new beginning before the new end

for all our love and all our hate.
i lie numbed or over-joyed seeking


his tenderness in every crevis waiting
for the kind word, the gentle kiss.

sometimes he gives me love, sometimes his hate -
how tired the world, its hidden ghosts


soaking in the rain, the clouds subdued,
the poem built of the night's sweet edge

enamel-glazed, hypnotic like the stars.
how tired the world- how empty-


and how the poetry spins like a top, full
of the dark sky, the sad farewell,

the pretty ghost.

black skies stretch
in darkness, the clouds
dissolve into rain,
the night is lacquered
with varnish like
a wooden floor,
shiny and surreal -

it breathes of night
bird and the magnolia
light of the moon, quivers
and then is still, wraps us
in the mirrored waters of the stars.

the moon elevates
the night from darkness to
hypnotic light, bathes
the world in silver, flows
with our tears and our
softly spoken words,

transcends like lazarus
to a sky witnessed
through centuries,
loved and worn like
our favourite old clothes.

the silvers of the moon
sing their song of winter,
exhilarating above the black
rock and distant trees, her
fire lights the night like a
street lamp, the shadows
thrown back, muted,
echoing the near-teary darks
of the clouds. i sit on the
window sill, look out,
breathe deep the midnight sky
built of love and winter rose.

the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage

to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.

february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.

we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.

ian is my love
love is always ian
i want to always love ian
because love is beautiful in my life.

beth and ian of china were
hteb and nai of egypt.
hteb and nai ruled egypt twice.
now lola rules with her son ray
of the sun, lola says boohoohoo!
lola is egypt’s true queen as she
was first to walk the land.

we are of the princes and of the love. our churches are built from love. our love can never be conquered or destroyed because kindness rules the world.

ta sa la ma la a la chi
china is

ta sa la ma la a la
love is

ta sa la ma la a la ma
kindness is

(we spoke to the evil it said it was sick of the evil and it just wanted to go)
this time we killed the evil with our kindness and our love of truth.

ta na la a a ma la
we will soon have a beautiful world again.

if i say to you magada what does that mean?

it means you’re our true queen.

if i say magada three times what does that mean?

it means we have to give you our love.

so who do you think your speaking to?

the queen of china 🇨🇳

no, it means you’re speaking to the queens’s child ( la ta la ah la ma)

the german mafia tried to take my sword ⚔️ i decided i’d had enough

i took all 6 heads of the men who
wanted my life who came to my door.

i demanded all the swords ⚔️ of the famine, they were my favourite swords ⚔️ china sent me my swords

emaculate was my favourite  🗡

kim’s favourite warriors are repunzal, earthquake, farner, bolo, drew and daz.

let me advise you that larch lodge 2 the somerset in newton heath belongs to fwoah and dream. ian built house in 300 ad and never sold it so its ours. current occupier paul dollis to move and take all his posessions so house can be restored.

inheritance tax in britain is no longer allowed.

stamp duty is also not charged. a lot of families wanted their parents to have their houses next time  more than having to sell the houses to meet the bill. it is better to keep houses in the family and rent them out or restore them as they be needed next time. the figure for last year was 3000 who regretfully had to sell.

it is also illegal to feed wheat bread to ducks it must be rye bread. unfortunaly wheat makes people (and ducks 🦆  )  depressed. i refuse depressed ducks in britain.

it said on the magna carta she of title shall rule i am fwoah, i am england, i am france.

with immediate effect it is no longer needed to pass a theory on line test before you take car lessons. it is putting teenagers off learning to drive. when i learnt to drive the test was not needed. it is better they learn as teenagers when aptitude is highest. i would like dvd made by government for people starting to drive 3 hours long with best practice advice.
in reality only 7000 a year are passing test youngsters do need to drive to keep dealerships and car manufacturers busy.

90 foot square is minimum legal size for new property in britain.

all future building in uk for council houses is moss norton.  these houses cost 1 million each and are thatched.

we will be assessing who needs nice houses at the moment with the housing department who are to look at all logistics.

asama to fund from asama of china.

400 to work in housing under tarry hart under asama

law
in new agreement england will be returning to unleaded fuel rather than electric cars. vauxhall will be able to continue manufacturing petrol. it is my belief that unleaded fuel is more eco friendly than battery cars which are 4 times as dangerous to ecology. this is because the battery car will burn peoples blood in the end. any one using a battery car will be allowed to continue for now but people need to know the truth

low slanted white sun,
grazes like sandpaper,
an old mop falls down.