I generally opt for slip-ons these days, but good to know.

Hypotheses, getting softened, freed. Worlds run higher, sons and sought not after but, pre. Hypothetically, my thoughts are meddling, wee. We fight fires, caught unsettlingly, master of our own and unto thee. Songs spit silently, violently at the tops of trees, yet we might not be all our eyes might see regardless of what we wish to be. I wrote a letter, tossed it for the birds to read; it’s inside of me, fragments designed to be the second seed for my mind to lead. Hypotheses, words turned to, prophecy.