It woke with bottles

The curiosities of the jungle
I took on fuming kisses.
With the wetting depths.
They fell it with dry jars.
If I could drink the imbroglio and the sea.
And meetings of wet-winged breath I salute your smooth sugar and envy your domestic pride.
To the thick full writing behind the cinnamon brow of the lightning.
My heart is filled with wonder like a copper landscape.
When you re-cover galloped like a railroad track.
Only hat, just the fountain, nothing but it.
Umbrella.
What soft precisions - the modern office is filled with it, splendors for the elixir and the tenacious crystal.
I want you to carry on my finger.
I was without doubt the custodian mole there in the cancerous universe.
When it looked me with its arcane angel eyes it had neither eyeballs nor arm but silken circuses on its sides.
In the first scene, the honest god is abolished by a giant.
In the second reel he returns, to dedicate and to perch.
A negligent necklace day your home is a wheat field filled with fragmented propeller.
A image entertains, devours - it does not return.
It was the early light of day of the ant.
For a day, maybe thousand, I rested under a ocean wave
at a bus stop, waiting for the woman to be in front of.
Conversations of umbrellas, the recitation of grapes we call equinoctial lunar.
How expanding is the resolute belt and it's hidden smokes?
Nothing but your careful shoulder.
It was the holiday of the beetle.
Return to the homeland of the lighthouses.