another prose block

Continent splits seems across a too-wide layer of glide. You give so much for this beam until we cannot go under any more. When will the red swish glance waht this really is? Words unraveled because silence hates fragments. Be a gallery until you are full of fixed omissions, take only the most vulmerable sequence. Yes, I say this in the most singular of ways. Here, it is always about variation and melt, build and cloak, buttes planked with blood-red soil. So much is puzzled here, smoaked and hefted when the spirit wanders away from the landscape. I manipulate the simplest of visions into an actual shadow, bleak, stratified, sedentary.