Naught to be excused.
Naught to be said.
Read these lines,
Go to bed.
In homage of e.e. cummings, written with the visual in mind, although his imaginal literal and floral weren't bad either.
August finds us in a churning miasma of scent. The odor of body, the clinging aroma of performing seals mixed with lilac, mixes imperceptibly with simple lack of a correct pronoun.
*Per Capita Ipsum* It will be months before any secure and cogent theme emerges. Until then, make do with photos, for they speak far more monosyllabically than I.
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