Patient, Better Driver

From diluvial binary code extracted from white walls lined the untouchable monastery, the fraction leaked, drifted like a molted feather one part the great machine one part flying machine one part dove one part down to a soil so rich with language even heavy reeds challenged words of illiterate change, an incomplete. But for how many buttons extracted canary-round’s thread? Only a father best known for knowing best in his walk-away-way delivery could know. Then there was sky. Clouds rained. In mud seed took root. ¾ of a weed grew to knee-high on a grasshopper whispering razz to filtered soon, and looked: to the east there was dark. to the west there was late. Now here is something. And so it thinks it better to wait for quarter moon.