Journal Entry: None Address

It’s more to silence, that long-ago feeling, embedded in memories: that resounding voltage; that worrisome proclivity; that make-believe dream: as tentacles un-claw, while images appear, that realization of promise; this cold excursion, thrust into portraits, at wonders our imaginations; as much to render, this kiss of life, as wrought by inner mechanisms; this fretted force, to ignore arts, while pining for adventure: to burst a soul, as more to confession, to listen by frequencies; those segue challenges; that cryptic competition; that need to feel secure. Attraction lessens, where curses flourish, while strongholds are relinquished: our gelid scars; that social ointment; those fancies at opera with motion: if but to feel, at patience for years, to shift with interests: such suffocation; such fluttered reality; such that dance with mirrors; as, nonetheless, that inner wellness, while seated beneath pressures: this none address, as seeing cultures, at pleasures to embrace this journey; while captured hearted, those inner activities, a select feature by habit; where lights were graven, as signs would flourish, as left to admit this weaving chasm; and, notwithstanding, such concern, our motion as currents, suggesting life; as never communion, but more to powers, while severed asunder—that existential, that torn futility, or more this perfection of rhythms. It comes to vision, a metaphysical giant, at war with tentacles; or more a realist, pitted in structures, too wise to escape wisdom—that fallen voice, to curtail rebukes, while controlled by childhood pillars; that face of worms, by chance a pattern, at actuality a genius; as to so little, prior to absence, while chasing this desert mirage: if more to spirit, this far excursion, a fortress will form; as less to art, this inner reality, while eggs topple from nests—this mental fulcrum, as deeply spectacular, our fires but a spectrum of soaring. There comes confession, this kingdom within, entering by multiple doors; while tugging at forces, alive at wilderness, building sandcastles: that tile of purpose, that mutual soulquake, this fleeing as to garner reality—as soon an address, insofar, as exposure, this camera flipping his psyche; as mothers ponder, our breached assessments, while consoling our songbirds: this path as vetted, as we shade with signs, while blessed this portal of focus; indeed, to eyes, as cultured gems, our wealth our sanctums.