R/ckets and S/ntries

in a bit of little time, with coarse rock salt dreading next to aimless pattern, while the friends indicate the rapture pose, possible sanctity in a language comes from growth, it's a bitter little time of voting haze and collaborative greed, judging from the system tank, all the dozing love slips from 1967 into an ether-informed purple chute of ringing sounds until you vote again, a gain in sight along the branch water breath, sleep after the all over, what's this suppose to mean?