Pummelling the rock for a progressive period. Nothing emerges. Still all around. The depression extends from this low ground to the atmosphere. The strings seem theoretical. Follow the jotted notes. Woe. Diddly marks and double entendres won't unify fields, whether weather with geology or surface tension with the impact of a meteor, let alone reacquaint the sections of the mind with an original idea. Material apologies to Beinhorn, whatever it is memory serves.
The least of all archetypes act aware. The clarity of feeling good gravitates toward its own chapters on mini remedial game pieces. In the fog's wake it resolves to forgo the easiest answer of them all, overcome it with liabilities, and call the truth too convenient an explanation. A procession's in play. Here comes the windfall. There it goes.
The title is despair. It creates its own resolution in a refreshing realisation of purpose enabled by an outlook justified by the state. Everyone can feel the way the trumpet blows when it takes it turn. Applause.
RIP Graeme Edge
