Thwarting the charge of saddening silence is a new sanguinity. Heading towards a vortex to illuminate the veils coolly, heading onward a Hungarian arcade, basking in a wishy-washy western factory, the haberdashery. Whatever causes torsion in the poems of my form persists only in the lost side of my inner self as a shriveled memory. Magically a moment is dim heaven lit singly by a golden bulb, set in discotheque valley. Gerund- cindering the plume of albatross crest as the flock of them voyages ahead the zone of rear twilight. Quartets on ashy Thursdays, two memories of burnt Mondays. The static drift that comes from honeyed others, sweetens the cargo, sweetens the crew, and conquers the passenger to a propelled story in the purgatory tempest. Colloquial is the crux of the affair that’s pretty in the wickedness of the edgy, blankly canvassed words amassing the art of fortunes.