"We do not feign tortured, my daughter and I."

And anyway, the prayer of the priest is to make peace with the lot of his life. While the girl on the motorbike too big for her, she talks dirty (of engines) with the fellas she rides with.

Just then, and when the light turned rosy, the stalking women spoke loud of ambrosia! Filled the sky to its atmospheric brim, with claims of last sight at first whim.

[Peole think it right to opine on what is offered them... Even so, what have you to offer?]

To allow--What magnificent madness is this?! To stay awake, and in waking give free reign to the things you've really no power over anyway. Indeed, to allow, and of course to enjoy, each moment's beat; the flow of perceived time with its singular rhythm. And to write within the inherent limitations of context? Gratitude endless, allow me to be grateful.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/20!/09)

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