Hedgehog leaps the sty, plants his feet, and arms outstretched, breathes deeply. To the West the old weather-vane, fresh on the heels of Winter, trots out a squeaky spin. Nothing is fixed. Nothing is repaired. Only time has transpired to produce the effect of gain or relief. Which or both, I cannot say.
In a sudden movement, the tectonic plate tilted and in a blinking render itself as a vast plain of erect and colored sails, spread as from wave of wind, spread and on moving.
A man arranging colored glass ages as the glass cannot know to age, not having asked how, and being incapable, if it were, of establishing proper controls, or even taking notes.
Sentences, like street savvy & muscular blonds, swing past the pressed suits of business as usual, except that one, there, the little man crumpled in a corner, his colored socks, mismatched, the skin of his face shifted around like rumpled bedding, but that was all you could ever say, at least to me.
A man drops a coin and picks up (solicits) a paragraph that hangs in the air like a pressed foil ornament, the air of the day apparent where there should paper be white, the space gelatin like, and the paragraph - why, it's a prose poem, a perfect block - described in letters so black they seem to absorb the light from one's eyes.