Time is like a brooch, an irremovable symbol, acting
out into the universe. Time outsoars time, a dimension of sunshine, wrapped in
violence, occasionally beautiful with time. By the epitome of light, to begin
in essence, brought to an apex in intuition. An abstract thought, searching for
solid understanding, faced by inner anarchy. Upon a chorus, into the sun, by
range to arrive at moon-morning. A solemn keepsake, time is idyllic, we need to
believe in time: by more flowers, aside caricatures, so serious, assigned to
examine time. Impassioned imprints—indelible time, florescent undulation, a
given moment, to wonder how time spends her time? Dreamlike reality, it
couldn’t be reality, time is an accountant of reality; cosmic comics, hated for
comedy, sold under time as wretched in time.
