Of a Yearning for the Avant-garde.

Two words.

Blue.

In the thirds wakening day. It shone. Or did it. Did it?

Shone, did it?

It’s at first obvious what is not. Sometimes it’s all but inure to oblivion from us. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes. Sometimes, it’s, what.

What is it sometimes. What is it.

What is it itself that breathes in shelves and wreathes- it tells me not to. It tells me, do. It tells- be it what it may, revels.

Belated, in shellstone. It’s here. Hone it will. Only will, behold- in still revolts it still- it readily instills.

Be still.

Be still.

Be still.

Be still, it’s here. In tilting hair.

Be still, it’s here. In tilting hair.

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