we are windows with lapsed insurance but see fine print where there is none
and that makes us innocent pillagers. the village learns to ween the system
from an iron fist to adopt an irony. but i digress, where the last appearance
gypsied the locals with petulant integers. the riven burn ! to clean the wisdom
of our schadenfreude. the image turns to ravine
the slender
isthmus.

but
pry it
from the
vapor

you can
knot.