Grafting mountains as on rice paper, of dormant charcoal carriers of yang stories. We saw an end to drifting that day, to receive the sentience of immortal kings. They were of Crazy Horse back then, like the cobwebs in the attic of one whose need is infectious. What of the yellow, the yellow where there should be a veranda. The first ambivalent day, different than twirling a baton, or riding a saxophone. Colors where do they come from in the Earth. It seems we peak and obliesque, onward past the drills of consumer quagimire, into the hearth of the haven of the seven gates.
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