Harvey trampoline

having recently been ignited, flames fanned, burnt to a crisp, fallen ashes swept up in wind, blown to four corners of the earth, resurrected, posted onto the web, bled into a billion screens as digital rain, nougat candy with peanuts eaten in bed, this reaction to dandelion antipathy obsession growing pale at the altar when marriage meets boxer-wrestler hybrid on the stage, harvey race and larry in twin city wrangle 1963, my one professional bout, poster lost sometime in the next decade, our family moved every two years from the time I was 9 until I was 17, what does your father know about those basement afterthoughts, quiet invitations to come downstairs and roil against the established trampoline safety recommendations, interspersed with western mass drive on 3 cylinders in comer caravan, that was a 62, when the numerologist ended up living in the round orange chair for 2 weeks, giving my insight into 3, 4 (the open cup) and all other root indicators, then gave up the violin to practice insanity, where the b.u. bridge walkway came to represent all manner of risk, no insurance available at the time of accident, on blackmer brother cassette release, playing for the mythical lori who lived in somerville, not to mention my green thongs melting into the central square payment on my first walk through the city, courtney on my back, searching for a way back home, for water, for shade.