In-class exercise:
We are ten and the art virtue at the High couldn’t trace our primal quiet. We were Italian, profuse and lavish, venting our literature in an ill terrain. Memories of Iran multiply in quotes above our heads, a belly past, too contrite and urban as our apartment. Inferior genius roams as our fathers attack alternatives of money and music. Every mile we walked at the High memorializes quaint numbers as we regain the dawn of a Dali. We tote the love insignia a petite virulence we always accorded, an impenetrable tainted animus, a calisthenic in the making.
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