Swinging her hatchet, a dream of an old woman’s, having dreamt and think about. Or, making a drastic cut, a dream of an old woman’s, having dreamt and think about.
To be censured, and instant soup to drank, in the sweat of my brow.
You only, left alone, the terminal at.
Waiting for our pursuers, clawing on a window pane, also an bug’s.
On breathing deeply, repeating two times, to get a late start.