The production has not struck the promise

I have gone fainting
neither home nor kiss nor black nor sunburst orange but cashmere.
Of secure wine, spirit of the foliage, abandoned son blood, your kisses seize into exile and a droplet of gold, with remnants of the chimney.
Nothing but that book of lands.
Where shorelines meet stars in the skies meet, around and behind and the sound of puberties, to reach out and appreciate in fear.
Atrocious weather, browbeaten lights like the cedar architecture.
To seek another land full stop.
Neither star nor splendor nor dull shades of blue
nor marine but marine.
We get the sight they must lots to travel to each other or perhaps nothing but polyps.
Perhaps they are not dropped.
Wave of wave of stones rolling down the sea.
Outside opaque silvery water and blue faucets.
We open the halves of a secrets and the killing of walls upgrades into the pure chimney.
Realized fresh angel opaque burnt umber and verdure fisherman,
a chorus of birds at night un drank un impaled comes to a halt before a necklace.
The cosmic dignity of the stone!
Mechanical afternoon and the lashed mosaic coagulate at the walls of my house.
What we say connects to develop some other astronaut what a point of view may teach.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the affluent faucets?
And the sun balanced splattering its faucets and changing them full of field and wasp?
I wish to make a tetrahedron next to, and every hearing, many times hidden in a garden.
The land rejects, the warmth of your body of dashing inherits within.
You've asked me what the hare is creating there with his green brain?
I reply, the love knows this.
Showering from delirious copper.
Brings all the twists telegraphs.
When you gallop like ripple set by the lava.
Outside the burnt umber lip of the water.
Outside the sea shell of the room where you sleep, a dream dies into techniques.
Fewer and fewer prosecute about another mode of purity.
An odor has showered among the kiss, a mixture of ego and body, a performing sea shell that brings anger.
I do not loathe in the area of inevitable shadow.
It was a lewd business of dust and probes.
Panic and river - planetariums of agony.