Epoch 64.24, Loss 1.1434, Dropout 0.25, 512/16[8,9,7], Ikeda

A person is sitting on a bench in front of a window on a summer day.

I move in the closet and my little feet, the black blue sky and the mountains and the sheets and the moon.

I stand still, and there is no doubt that I will be forgotten.

I wonder if the children have forgotten the stories of the moon?

There is no way to get more and look at the floor.

I hear the spider standing in the room with the black potato chips of sound and mouth on the second floor and there is a green sheet of shoes on the floor and it is bare to the blue jacket.

A person is sitting on a bench in front of a window red flowers, more intense than a cardboard pot of some funny ladies and nothing else to say, which is the one there is no way to be the one who would be a boy for the truth, and they are past one hour or so, and now the six months of ocean is coming, and the sun is full of the earth.

Rain is a red corn, and a small fire in a house where the tires are born of a cloud.

The moon is closed, a still wood stumbles in the silence.

A person is sitting on a bench in front of a window on a summer day.

I stood at the edge of the park bench in the back of the room where I was a whole city drawing the first time so long as I was too long ago. I was a conversation the next day I was the only one who was about to find it wrong and I suppose it was too soon about the track I was driving to the bar to see how I was in the parking lot. I was a stranger who couldn’t complain about how I was still on the floor.