After the tsunami wind of idiots passes, love is not careless from heights above, passionate reflections in clouds sometimes appearing as clowns. Yet, the lover inevitably goes, there is an ending in the happy realization that love buds in Spring and goes after the season shuts down the merry-go-round ride.
Out in the wilderness of hitching for a ride along the narrow and crooked highway down Minnesota way (56th & Wabasha somewhere shady in the bright snow-lit reflective crystaline refraction)
Supposedly there is no actual 56th & Wabasha in Minnesota, but I beg to differ as I know approximately where it is:
Meet me there in the morning when I am mourning the loss of the city of fallen blues turning crimson merillion````
The color of your seaport sunset spiraling into creative madness and spontaneous formulaic fantasy (preceding fame and fortune):
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