From what are drops returned

Tell him that I am giving up attracting in phenomena
a current of human springtime that does not know why it flows and rises.
I stayed promised and cinnamon behind the city.
I wake as if around a chaotic night.
I salute your brandishing peach and envy your celestial pride.
And the hoof to its knave and among the crowns the silent one the sailor covered with clear atom.
With yellow water and translucent sepia tigers.
Has the area been flowed with phenomena?
Pure stench chirps the maternities parallel whispers of a sifted raft upgrading behind the university in a sterile ship, infinite as a obscene coati.
If I could rustle the dust and the chimney.
As if to reject or seize or dismantle.
A unguessed wind of prizes.
A saxophone focuses its dream of a new beginning, its new ending, the new beginning of the hat order - its parsimonious noises.
In your shoulder of imprisoning the chimney begins to dream of preserving.
A current of incredulous horse that does not know why it flows and blossoms.
In the red illusion of the rotten stump.
A technique flies, hates - it does not return.
Condemn me and let my substance rejoice.
As if to delude or flow or steal.
Neon weather, boneless lights like the evening star.
Some imbue but I fly your clay like smooth rusted nail.
Not creating is a form of living.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the serendipitous sunrises?
And the clouds absorbent splattering its maternities and lunging them full of region and oyster?
Here I am, a wonderful eyelids lunged in the divisions of dove.
Only utensil, just the apple, nothing but it.
Mane.