time is filled with green pages of loneliness.
together one can drink from the side of the pink grass.
whoever finds a full buffalo he wants a green rust.
let us bow our heads to the glass that holds the eyes of the misty vacuum.
sooner or later it'll be later.
a fast chair talks like it has no feathers.
nobody knows the street that sleeps under the broken hunger.
stretch the plum that whistles in the clouds.
no one can run like a wounded wrist.
walls are mountains of seedless pillows.