The car is heavy with children tugged back from summer, swept out of their laughing beach, swept out while a persistent rumour tells them nothing ends. Today we fret and pull on wheels, ignore our regular loss of time, count cows and others while the sun moves over like an old albatross we must not count nor kill. There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground. Today, all cars, all fathers, all mothers, all children and lovers will have to forget about that thing in the sky, going around like a persistent rumor that will get us yet.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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