The one wall – outside – around side in – into the far yard unknown hoping for the luck of the lick.

Salmuk has been waiting. Salmuk doesn’t remember, but doesn’t refrain from reminding herself to not remember anything. Salmuk is old, possibly the oldest of the Stault. Salmuk listens to the beast of her heart. Falls like the angels egg. Salmuk watches the moon set, one to the next. The blanket in smartas heart. masscerated in the crosssection. The oral solution. orange juice concentrated. Salmuk waits, she knows there is only one time to taste the biennial contour. Salmauk of the stault.

A crying stone has been worn down into a lipstick shape by tears from faces agape. The crying stone waits to become what it already hasn’t… the tail of a living thing, a thriving growing cane of a thing, a dying mausoleum mast making feet soft and going unnoticed.

The hydraulic torso motor of Antikythera. anu mamite. She’ll be remembrance. boiled bills and ground thrills rejoice for the pudding that will never set. The flavor of dust remembers that it tastes like pudding. The flavor of must has disdain for the bygone daise dried out of existing grass. headdress malaise. Good doesn’t have to be good.