Yes those belong to Harry, a smart-looking gent of the patronage. He had my whit belong to his salts and nursery, a developmental mill, praised for corn-fed movie theatres, you provide for them in arguments sake a making for weekend popcorn, them browsing to resale the lot. Yards of recycled cable had him at the second million, consumed his worth in blue chip stocks, fine Harry, invented nylon contraband, first made popular by Lennon, under the communist acrobats of those playing, to the games on tour. Modern photography withheld due to his etchings a lifelong social reform, resounding to free-speech, bookies to a sequel: yes i were never to know him without dreamy feathers.

2020 Adam Blewett ©