Saturday

unconscious is turned to the future here.

O yes, my old unconscious| this what Jill hurried round the hearing bell of her seeing. Not any narcotic rainbow, but embyronic as any choosing was her sun
filigreed refined and daring to be true, a tryst in nine saved the numbers crawling. Round she worked her spiral staircase, love's only bawdy her name.

_________________________________So you see Oona, the unconscious's a mouth secrets its hefted becomings the handsomest price paid for love.

unconscious is turned to the future here.