To comb nature, thats a no brainer, the feather stroke diary of a home makers, break the policy like the seal on a road flare. Im just an old mare who hasn't been brushed, every nights the same day dream that keeps me out of touch, her hair is so soft, tearing up the split ends, bearly enough cuz the whip tends to knot, as do you not depends on strategy and plot, she keeps going and the batteries are shot, writing away...she composed Beeethoven's Piano Concerto NO. 5 in her sleep, inbetween jobs, and filing for devorse, riding out her high horse for weeks, the vocabulary translated into notes so distinct, she still knows to blink, the way emotions sink in the oceans wink, a poetry in sync
