"A board?" They speak, "They dont! who in theses Nineties would dare in these?"
Yet,
In the south of the 95th.
Miles away, where there is but a war, tagged is the heavens with loosened lightning knots whose afternoise brutally overpowers the sea like a pirate,
He sighs one,
Actual enough out of the foggy silhouette,
of the smoothest wood she's
Surfing, surfs, surf…
Comes to Collect to him
in the vast of the empty 95th Winter.
"Who...