turn, turn, turn freshfaces scatter in a harvest breeze all bevested in dirty pretty things overdyed, prewhiskered, overplucked crinoline. the inevitability of zombies did I miss the circular? or did I never, ever comprehend the vernacular? in cerulean tights and simplecolored wings she befriends barflies to pitch sobriety the emperor of Rome, of taurine proportions hawks Neapolitans to muscular oceans a minivan fleet on a painted frieze an'-why-you dorms, whisperquiet all seas

Manish Vij