I will visit the morgue.
Listening to something I will say.
Did you know I was dreaming?
Beneath a sliding glass door.
You and I have heard the song of the long afterward.
I place their invisible stems inside the lake.
I pressed the button twice.
She'd taken the only window seat.
As one thought springs from another
daft and wanting of refinement
the act of careful and rational consolation.
He was late, of course, by afternoon, we could smell him.
The girl would see if she could see anything.
Do you think I will like it there?
A street preacher bending over the waterfront.
The Lady of Kicking Horse Reservation.
Go to the root of all things
For I can snore like Fergus.
I'll go among the dead to see my friend.
I walked away with your face.
Who is St. Vincent?
**Lots of fodder here, with certainly be coming back**
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