A crowd. Staring over heights of high. A crowd. Instead I yearn for simplicity.
The brewer of a good batch. Instead bubbles, of bath. I yearn for a cup in my hand. I yearn for. Where is the good man.
The good flock. Birds and wall. The wall, a sky. Back to the ocean instead of the city. The storm. The city thunder.
Hearing it, below the staircase winding. I yearn for chores. Household tidy. Cleaning up, out, down, out, around. My face is clean. My shower is used. I put my foot inside the boot. It was empty. I feared a spider. Or two. I fear for it, and it's getting stomped by me.
I am a meal. Instead of a person, I ate the last. I am the grain, the fat, the protein, the. Boil me, like water. Fry me, like I did. The last time. The last. A person is like food. Warm it up, break it down.
Simple place is for sitting. We used to go in the corner. We used to stare at the wall. Flock of birds. Flock of four corners, a house, four walls. A corner meets in the middle. I am in the middle of. A flock of birds. Some call me the leader. I look behind and see nothing. They who followed went away.
It took time, instead of thought. It takes time, like mist falling down. A water-pour onto the highway, onto the bay. It moves slowly, instead of go, go go. Instead of simplicity, I yearn for hunger. Being full. I sat in this place. I sat me down. It took time, oh. A flock of birds. The flew. The last, and the last one, also following.