A bunch of everyday activities, just up in a hot air balloon. Like line-drying clothes and stuff


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Culture is what we drink. That bow on the back of your neck. That register in the front of your eye. Pulling a crowd. Completely around a block. Her terms direct the discourse. Her Image compels the blind. The Orpheum. The Mayan. The Vista. The State. The Artists. In Different. United. In Wait. Music. Is her primal. Dancing. Her chiral. As is dying. At her regular, divined, interval. For when you flood a rose with water. You accelerate the bloom. When you avatar a feeling. You heroine its fame. Here. In the Choral Ropa. In The Rosslyn Million. In The Santee Passage. Efficiency is soaring. Quality is suffering. Release. Is escaping. Desire gives exactly what we want. Surrender gives precisely what we bleed. That wonderful old-fashioned idea. That others. Come first. And that terribly new-fashioned ideal. That everyone. On this planet. Is dying. From love