“Without
Seeing that booty, Itself, How the
Wind Sweeps over the Tips of the Field, just East of the Dream of an Onslaught,
a Fugue, before a Summer’s Dusk, AS IF,
the Sun, Privately, Exhaled Softly in
Setting, a swell, Swollen and
Sullen for your Recognition”
-Boris Izsus 2012
