III.
Dusted with dead crablets, the beach was still and silent. Old man of the shore— no more qualms. Shoreline to the right got more crooked as it tended to the horizon. Lucrative of fate or desire unbeknownst, he is gazing at horion once very often: "maybe under a night such here was I with clouds etched out like Olympustairs, coloured of an unknowingly spilt palette!". In Poseidon's wake there is sleep. He turns right. A step and a step. Like swelling eye procession. Flummengeist! Under a sky like this I could not have walked so precautiously. Oh the flames we have to tap into! Even if he had only wanted a cold night's sore. Steps and steps. End unflinching beacon. The easternmost shore. It has to stay there. Through ages and actions immemorable. Like how our hazes are tied with pneumatic poppy blanks. It reeks of no desire and no formations. Solely. An ontopological blank. In this fold, a fold amongst many manifolds, are no historians. Neither topographers. The ocean- the shore- the beach- the sootherlands- the villages- the marshes- the stonevilles. Crude muutterings jaded nephrites. The abyss of human species the chasm of entities. As a log just plain dots canvases upon canvases waiting to be dipped in tears. Epitome of gods and creations alike. This plane, as do many others like this, exists to whim; the warmths of metaphysics. Yes like that he will align, steps after steps on the cool sands. Forever. And forevers outstretched. And only will stop at places as he will stand. On fine granules.....
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Affairs Mk. 3 XIII / Accounts Payable (Fabricated)