strung as though a harp of sound timber that falls in the forests of dread blisses unnumbered that flow to the bride a bouquet of sunsets and sunrises --take the needle and stitch it a bridle-= the hooves that a memory are riding resembling a chamber made up of nerves they perceive and perceive and perceive more which is the music which is the murmur between and beneath the tongue, lips, and throat is not a person without the Furor oh words you are weapons I hardly know how I can stop you from starting to row.