VOLODYMYR BILYK

In vain procrastination.

Asking - is always like singing. It's hot and under the night sky - clicked to the unconsciousness by the avalanches of breaths and yawns. It's like prohibition - making the air hot and barring the lights that for a moment are out.

Cut throat. Here and in this manner it is intriguing. All pending the signal - to the poaty spit of sorrowless horrorfull being. The parrot asks the pear. Then the parrot asks for pear. Then the parrot asked by pear - confused, intrigued gets glued to the branch. The parrot is waiting for the judgement to happen with him. With a closed linear juice running the lines across his furry body  - release - says the constrained - this pretentious pad is on a slope and hanging. It will go on for all the vow.

Sneaky turn to right and turning the corner and getting the attention to the sound of the turn and flip and roundabout upside down before calling the nausea with disdain of honir.

Shootdown forced paint it all to yellow tones, then blush with sirens singing. If not only it would make sense. Of interest bearing sight of moves that dazzle. Beats to close for a moment. Terror and then no flashes. Drizzle only. A trick of hope on terms of miracle. Finger extends the leg. Fingers of the leg extend the track which was first well-trodden by the juice falling of the parrot. Musically, with a slope of humor - the pyrotechnics arise - it will upset someone. Sit down, put the hands on the knees at every turn. Because before it they're going to cover the face and efface all the liquids going out of it.

Torture is not frightening for a place to fall marked and followed by the dust. Besides above it is twitching. And it is of those species who can put a  shadow on the wall, and of those species who is on the ground. And there was the hurl so dim that, eventually, it quietly embedded butterfly in a molten shell - all this to adequately keep the hands and cry at the same time to make a hole in the bottom of preferred and perfect and culminating on the knees - sinking gloriously - the splasch of happy yell.

THUD SQUALL GUST THUD GUST SQUALL GUST THUD

FLAW

THUD GUST SQUALL GUST THUD GUST SQUALL THUD

FLAW

THUMP WHOP THUMP WHOP THUMP WHOP THUMP WHOP

SURD

THUMP WHOP THUMP WHOP THUMP WHOP THUMP WHOP

SURD

SURD THUD SURD THUD SURD THUD SURD THUD SURD

Abb weft woof.

Above the dark gray wall with bricks in chess rhyme. Looking funny and amazing. The taste is irresistible to seizure. The sound of breath is kinda pigmy fire song. A wicked charm is full. It forms a mothers care of echo.

A man with a romantic hairstyle, which had topped behind the butterfly. He had mysterious facial expression, which indicated that his executor was something. It savors the smell of clothes that was dissonant from the time of its description and the social status of "good". He is holding a woman while behind him the candle is burning. A woman looks at him as if he was a man who actually was a fountain, with whom she would play poker while horses would cut circles around them in severe and sincere desire to rivet attention. Absolute confusion. If the shadow of the head fell to his chest - it would be rightly otherwise.

These events did not prevent him from sitting in a chair in front of a small round table with metal Jug. He is holding the bottle by a way which is usually considered - achieving esthetic satisfaction - by looking for numbers in liquid and thinking about the nature of its content. At the same time his hands are fetters, and he sings a shadow by throwing one leg where usually located bodypart further from the elbow or foot. He wants to bend the leg. His table is uncovered, but there is a passionate play in a window box. He wants to throw some air at it. His eyes are closed. Most likely, he would sing about the pain and also tooth.

Most likely he was already singing something like "I was born during a tough day, where was the hight-time and even shine. I have nothing but looking back on my life - I have to say that I suppressed. Oh Help me, I need some rest. Everyone needs something, but I have no one to hold a hand. I am full, tell me how much and how long I must wander away with a scream? Or wipe me and would I lie when I kiss someone? with all this - I'm depressed ".

And then this: "Take heed to the lepers - they tear bands - they do not stop - they push against the wall!"

But it is ... awfull watermellon downbeat justice kindly cut for ear to eye.

And yet in spite of windows and lights among the hay they sat, they hold their hands with slow obscene intentions. They express. He would like to see how she dances. But she wants to get close to his mouth and bite it - pull the lips, cheeks, tear the tongue and get the saliva fall. It's in between the caresses tender joy.

At that time the eyes are going to have a quick run to the opposite face, but they are too small and the area is too detailed to pass it in a wide openned manner of vicious being. At this time an opposite pair of eyes  are tied on the card manipulation and they attempt to discern the opposite pair eyes in their quick run. Cards flipped, dust jumped. But at the same time they're all enjoying the game of colors in them and their overall color. Two necks, closed and opened. Necks with a light strands. Time passes and there are no significant moves. Maybe there are no moves at all, but who cares.

There is a question of choice: bow around his neck against the beads with a spoon on her neck. When someone will collapse from thirst and swallow his tongue - a pair of moves - poetry - or tighten the node on a bow or a spoon to scoop up the broken teeth and get the tongue back in place. But it will never justify the hidden ears. Her curls had covered tragus and his temples covered her curls. We are waiting for a spark.

At the same time, people spoke about the events of the previous night. There was a long black line, then the dancer appeared, but he danced outside the door. A man saw nothing but heard knocking and breathing that reminded him the battlecry "yet." Of course, it's useless procrastination. He wants some but got the hope to doubt it in unhappened form. Because nothing ever happened - and all this was just a glimpse in his vessel - it's all over now. Next there will be blue terrain and a starchild walking but pretending he is swimming to the paper with the poem written by Henry Miller.