how many bury tomorrow in a castleI will make a homein that land without a roadand if I miss some things I will forgetby degrees the way of living undera sense of want
road lost in a fieldlost in marla wound is my cure for anythingthough it may ooze now and thenout with a toothhaving been in pain all dayI am rawand old as the earth
it was the sea not a shipthat was losta thing as imaginable as a great plaingoing outwhat mad sort of testimoniesthe seamen giveforced to work on a highwaythat would only stop
prettily done for the common waythe road cost me my wifewho has a mindto understand each windowhere is the terrestrialhere painted as lifehere at home people sit up longerbefore their ash