The writings of Colin Bolton

[moments]

Puny and belated angles of time ruin the middle of an altruistic depression, angels leveling unlearned interruptions in his hunting. Frozen and impudent, he could not bear his advantage, this lame neighborhood, a poor nothing in this world of ours. Compared to undulation, leaden showers, the grape canister takes a spill and a stab at facts. A tedious romance goes by the title of holy falsehood.

A chore beheld in a house not handsome, paraphrased in the great envoy of muslin veiled pink maidens that trade a question for the kind of rhyme that joins horse sweat to Rochester Helicopter, plummet mandala. Octachords. Earth appears lost without. And outer runaround. The problem of surges. Gradating.

Branches Tweeze. You think at what scared Electronics Square big blue evens.

Out and lost. Root. The problem sacked through ground floor window. Involuntary.

Revision. Wrote. Flush. Herb.

Whose foreign body forgiven argues with some dreamy chap who took a hurtful spirit to the modern animal as an antique vegetable guide. No penalty attached.

The novel can no longer fringe or look like engine. Like dead fish or cloth money, maintenance of decision persists and Luck flows. Insulted by Expression’s request to return to dead society. And this scruffed crystal makes excavations in wooden famine, touching speech, piercing radiant caves of greetings. Lust balanced by doting gallops, the sanguine probationer making brainy observations like, look, right there on the wall near the top, in two small symmetrical arcs.