Epoch 59.24, Loss 1.1455, Dropout 0.25, 512/16[2,4,6,8], Rothko

A close up of a red and white striped umbrella and the streets are still still and the sun is still a little and the sun is still and the sun is still and the sun is still and the sun is gone.

The sun is singing and the sun is still and the sun is looking for the sun.

The sun is still there and the sun is still and the sun is down and the sun is still and the sun is gone.

The sun is still there and the sun is gone.

The sun is still and the sun is still there.

The sun is dead.

The sun is still, and the sun is shining in the wind.

A close up of a red and white striped umbrella, and the post office was a fire of stone in the middle of the bar. The streetcar remains of the police. The bar was a little strange and sharp as the man who had the strength to stay away from the problem. The little girl was a big fish with a green shoe which had hardly a shot and the party of the storm was being considered a strange story.

A close up of a red and white striped umbrella, and the mountains are lighted and still there is no definition in the morning of a little of morning to the first thing that makes the moon sink under the space that will be gone from the stars.

I want to see it like this has been so awkward and unwanted. I shall see it all out of the sea of the past. Only the sound of the trees are coming up like a bone to be put on a strange ship.

A close up of a red and white striped umbrella, and the living and the dark and the red with the sleep of a hand, and the wind remains the sun and the high leaves.

The sun is beautiful, and there is no desire to feel the mind off the sea.

In the middle of the place, the moon is opened with the human form.

The world is all the streets are all there.

The land of the broken light of life is a procession

Of many million men in lonely arms

On the page of the barn. All the time the sun

Is wheeling out of a dark bright ground.