Strumming guitars within the water,
nature calling,nature reserving,
Oh no, how tactful, little golden strings harping their way onto your flipped hair,
you’re not really there,
you’re within the buds and confines of terra herself,
gravitationally whisking you towards her great lair,
of primitive matter and why do the permeabilities scatter
lines and little pointlike circles
scrolling together forcibly,
what if the grasses could sing,
oh it’d be such an odd thing,
they would tremble and pitch and tune and loom,
soprano, tremolo, entropy and fright,
the grasses stroll along with everything all right,
sit down, take a chair,
watch us dance in the prima matter lair.
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