Only our fleshy freeway rides with pours denied and champagne sneeze control can heal our summer scratches
with alcohol and matches and cigarettes unburned and lies untold. A candy-escape, Pacific-excuse, where brides and cellulos rule against a bossa-nova backdrop with basketballs and black-top that sears the soles of sneakered hopefuls. Let linens release the rules and the rush, and ruin every single pace. Shallow, cool, and shaded, a carnet or affidavit, you're as much as liberated from all future red tape, as your mouth forms sounds that we've never heard on unrestricted air. Against some Pordenone plaster and Rotterdam disasters, I'm simply satisfied to touch your hair.