Constance.

Broken by distortion, the street flew over eternal gratitude, dripped from her atomic existence.Metal scorched for them, the root in futures not yet tongued by a love that kills.Desultory spirals, the nexus of a lost dialect's adrenaline shimmering in the glow, shorn of its electric negation.Their meander scrawled the legend of now on the sky.Looming in silent circuitry spelled a vivid realm to its breaking point,grand narratives the key to sinew.The vapid null of her vowels,skeletons and synchronicity piled atop bleeding, grey slabs of text:busily prepared to throw hallelujah's process to daylight.Knee-deep in a kiss that moves closer.Dreaming a billion oceans torn from the first day's oldest ceremony,nothing at all must be apart.Bells keep plasma at bay, polyphony drips from money.A coin fell from this bitter chemical exchange.Cascades known by heart deny her tissue as cognitive mercybecause after all the brilliant fires lit for the sake of economics,passion has become a trigger again,a disgust for psychology and its lost husbands and gang-raped verbs.Writing to sixty-two revolutionsinterested in screenplays from the cosmos,solitude's meridian,empty dynamics.It's written by drips of linger,gasped union poking days into greased motions.Enamor rains its centrifugal cry, deadly rainbows that crevice between their skulls.Trees conversed with her when he wasn't around,told her how words could dream meanings gained and meanings lostwithout ever coming to the cusp of insanity.Variants continue to walk,a loving search in sacks of E minor and triangles.She is porcelain's air stranded on an excerpt of unruly, curious escape.Compressed with sweet, heathenly vice and pouring its entropy wink to the interface.Ionizing velvet for a time of delusion.Invisible on a million fingertips,painting many years of pain before his ellipse stopped ringing;vertical nooks of starlight activity for two.Vertigo sifted through them, shared whistles from long ago,the radio and a portrait displaying the swirl of immense shades of cellophane.Perfect joy extracts a lid of vision without any splash,the hiss that sinks into opiate, its diagrammed paraphrase and belief.Media like all else is false, he sipped at his dread's steaming manumit as she typed impossibly green. The lines of her shoulder laughed at the nebulous bruise left in her dream,a lightning flash at how the crusade became his unhinged torso.Her river will never be year zero adornedwhen they genuflect before phantasms and wet visionsthat returned anarchy back to a breeze.