nothing about the weather

I've misplaced flare, hairy boots walk with strands for anklets. Beads consecutive awake and soaked by some. I drank some. So I'm loyal to enough.
Finding a quest is the same verb covering it's self as a verb to what every body does as themselves, every day.
An overlap though a discussion so typically made to create tears about contradiction.  So those torn and shot are doing it wrong as the end meets, and the sky is covered like a blanket of stars that shine altitude as if we knew nothing more.
So alive as if we were swimming through the orange tinge of sand, drunk, trying to put a name to who we are if we're falling down a hill. As if it was so bad falling over. We need that script written as a scream for moments of living like Pink Floyd's smear of guitar dust and sound was apparent and untrustworthy, it seems. As these deem a lack of packaged expectation for my daily living these days, as the winds won't pick up the sand from that part of the desert I can see. Just as if my health was worth more to what I see. Gratified hesitation.
These grains I used to feel.