This
feeling—of vague sadness: hovering; featured in eyes, an unexpressed wound.
There’s
presence—a befogged mind, to retrace thoughts. Wherefrom, this haze, a
petal
in a storm, sifting through anxiety?
I
awoke—groggy; this heavy feeling, cultured in its essence. The routine is
familiar: light a cigar, sip coffee, while practicing, No thoughts. They creep in, the value of solicitudes, to exile a
sense of calmness. I fish for it; this core need; to scribble the music’s life.
This thing: the bringing of comfort, where chaos swarms, castled on a chessboard.
It’s befitting to pray: an intrapsychical chi, to stir emotion, to rev an inner
sense of self. Mother was inhumed: to
seek for liaisons, founded in substances, somewhat staunch through
addictions. I find a trait, a want
for ruby wines: sheer negligence on my part.
There’s a mental foray that one must avoid. It leads to distress, an
inner warzone, the brains Gestapo; but I’m practicing, No thoughts: an intricate legacy, to listen to tidbits from
winds. It’s akin to semiotics, the
study of signs, a jinni as a puppeteer; where manna is insights, an amulet on a
thought, an inner renaissance. It’s a
penchant cycle; this strong liking, for a process found delicate. Its
entelechy, something stationed in realization, as opposed to potential. I’m
found here; as snug as squirming, scraping mire—through worlds of marsh;
whereat are mayflies, to shed for essence, a torn freedom through
disaster. Through mimicry—the finding
of intensity—as conscious as cheetahs—where pain morphs into art; piercing
horizontal lines, pointing at mind shifts, alive through cycles!
