A comrade made of new-cut pine sitting rooms, because of foxed pages and clamorous awnings, warm dregs improved by salt plum —the breakfast nightingale has only commendations, and hangovers, even if Berlin remains what you’re barricaded from.

The melancholy new patriot wants to be alone. This is the story of his smithereens.

From where we stood, careening quiet. The knives of shepherds slit the lambs. Later, the huge apparatus. When.

. A black sun lights the creases in capital’s night nightcrawlers prong. The congratulatory vanguardists can accept

Hardest of the places to begin the blueprint, chewed cuticles To the gristle bone-white, stertorous the drafts that make up Our permanence tethered and forever. Most of what

You don’t need eschatology to see the finitude in all this. Cantilever arm of all sweetness, pinions of every description

My hounds will never find me, even with the cracks in the tabula rasa. They, after all,

We have set beasts up and walking but no one is paying notice to the trample. They lift whole train sleepers like toothpicks and interrupt