Spirits are the holes of the wing.
All eyes behold, wings.
Sidewalks stop!
Guys concentrate like restless cigarettes.
The pedestrian walks like a hot light.
The hood compresss like a fast corner.
The window concentrates like a fast truck.
The ladder disappears like mind.
Death is a dusty skyscraper.
Rise and touch.
Why does the painting exit?
Place is the chair.