Free Write, Week 2

One afternoon the last week of April she answers the bothersome telephone. It hangs from heaven to earth and looks on the world as on another cloud. The hills like burnt pages, where does this door lead? I walked away with your face stolen from a crowded room. A person is very self conscious about his head and despair is big with friends I love. I had a vision of the moth-force a small town always has. Not my hands, but green across you now. We still love there in thundering foam and love, lying there lily still. One more day gone, found in the form of days.