Bill Friend


That which is supposed to work is doing, my fellow fellows, the rest does not yet it will, we say. There is a song there is, underneath, it is seasonless and wholesale even in season, it is low miles and in fact a story unflawed and singable. Shunt we say at the meanwhile connecticut: no avalon could be best or better, ours is some blaring, that of deserts or rust, one color can only be pleasing as any open vista is small, unridden or controlled. Tumbleweeds are policy, are history, grabbed and with perfect aim. This was not my desert so it is, I sunshine thickly, nod decisions as truth, forcing the issue gym-simply, it is our knowing that becomes us daily, otherwise there is failings. You don’t need to know me, I am the saying and appearance, I am a daydream of pie or the wealth of desired blanks as your mirror. Because certainty is for the napping I invite you to sleep soundly with one name, to live where you pretend you live, my large drivers, offering thanks to thanks on a box of grouted certainty and desert wind.

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