The flame of the forest is a falling petal, red oozing with lit sun, showering a wish, a suggestion of each tip to be flaming love. The bed is a glowing mound of petals, foaming cycles, and glowing fountains embracing blossom filings.
I evade a direct answer by putting on a funny sort of smile partly idiotic and partly hidden. I see the porous smile of James Joyce on the new edition of Ulysses grinning out of my tattered bag wondering why the publisher chose the funny looking dolls, one big and clasping the smaller one as coke.
Within a single Universe, the entire phones were articulated into meanings called Sounds. The other Universes could not be deciphered as their availability depended on the range of symbols, which due to the vast cleavage of the mind had to be transformed into a universe of imagination called memories?. Moses Masonides in the Cryptic Decagram
