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ePaper created 2013-10-09, 06:36:00 | version 1.25.20
215 from Not Time You no longer has hands between things. You has no longer. Hangs suspended in its whistle between thing and its whistle. Been Jeff and yet is David Grambs. Time bulks against sweaty parens. Like, asleep under a visor, sweating from coffee. From a portrayal, you gets in, sweaty from oxygen. This page is the neck of its collar, then it adds above each a line & a line. No, now I can draw parakeets – This pro-literate heft is you no longer.