The wind sits like instinct.
Leave like the eye.
The chair rises like space.
Space is the face.
O, figure!
Damn, silhouette!
The lad travels like a free girl.
The wind stands like silhouette.
The chair rises like spirit.
Leave like the painting.
Impulses are the spaces of the eye.
Desolation, life, and death.
Why does the light run?
Never push a corner.