What happened yet on a typewriter key Finally forgot from The typical time. Grayface, my body loves to tempo the ruins In the age of dove layers. This spinning vice, to involute, to read. Grayface, round only under stood easy Books old with hair, grasping into building new ones. My haven low and plush. Names curl, slash, bend our future braided with our words. A bottle drowned with ash, Richly reproductive rhyme, Clicking tempered dust and ribbons, forest and the ruins. An arrow accelerates And a grayface will be what he will be Typing in the sunrise, typing on the midnight.