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Push forward the unscripted land. Don’t sit on the fence. It’s all in the mouth now. Rolling through the sand. An elemental defence. Neither of them know. Shade or sorrow. Collapsing towers shine through their golden walls. Fair-trade bullion and isolated showers. Persist in the gloom of the marching towers. The deer sees movement. Its eyes still. Measured in response. The rats fly. Pay no attention. They never smiled. Clouds and jewellery litter the sky. Vanishing on a whim. Carelessly paying no attention to the setting sun. As it squashes below the unending plain. Rays of beams. Slithers of light catch it on all fours. He lays in the shadow content without singing. Tell them its time. Ears pricked back. Fur flat. Blocks rise from the sand. That’s where I am sat. Like desert teeth. They stand and form. From sand and wind. Growth from sight. Minimal effective construction. The anti void. A small recompense of moments lost. In the distance a mime. Salutes the ever normal intertwined. A luxury of a knowing mind. Knowing a land. A land I call mine.
Tiny droplets break the sand. Ever essence of peace and solubility. The blocks shiver. Rivers carry on. The sand is primed. Excerpts of slime and public pantomime. A strong consequence. From one end to mine. Service is slow. But well worth the wait. We give it time and the sand always knows. It’s never rushed. Never phased by passing days. Solid and uneventful. Rosemary and thyme. Salt and lime. To see her in the line of the land. Glass smooth and thin. Blue gleams for a transitional quixotic. Transparent skin. Making the air the whispers scream. The whispers are ready. Poised on touch. Poised on tongue. We lay our hands. The blocks are warm. None understand. It’s this or nothing. A nowhere which understands. Listen. It’s there. A vibration of sand. A moment in the unscripted land.