Marshal Without a Gun

The cavernous polaroid engrosses the oceans crash and clouded rage of twenty-something oddities ruining a rather delightful sunday. The one day that everyone does nothing, is it not wonderful becoming sloth-like living by the couched bear asleep? Walk slowly slick you wouldn’t want to unfix the Hawthorne groove from your repertoire. Ray bows easily towards a bad outlaw that stuck three to twelve, and only missed one panda for life.

He bailed on the birthday to convince himself that he is no walk in the dark, an out of focus spark in the park. They’re just alive to lark loudly, proudly and only the cold of the snow could return them to their houses. Come together, the fizz of the dream. This is not a soap, we’d better hope, its usually the wrong thing to do. Choose or lose the potential to do so. The decision was so clear, yesterday. How could the result be so wrong now?

You were told a long time ago.

What d'ya think?

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