Thirty-thousand sheets of paper fell down like drippin’ snow in August.
We were covered.
They were all named “Dave”.
Eight-hundred new isotopes were found on the insides of Thoreau’s glasses.
They were covered.
We were acting like items.
There was a face-off of great magnitude (Most people would agree that it felt like an 8). Ground spurred and gurgled and sounds burped. I fell off of a horse which I had never gotten onto.
And I smelled your perfume between the computer stalls. It was like mildewed cotton. Splayed between my fingers, I forgot how much I liked it. Then I ate it.