I
met the doctor, or a portal, some excellence in recreating heartbeats. the
fathoms at seas the torch of souls so little by credits to be applauded. a
niche in spirits a noetic fling so furious it fires into flamingos. it would
strike something arrhythmic or it would implode where a spark was waiting. I was
dying in beauty but the source was immediacy or some cadence pitching chayote;
the film on replay sudden into entrance while angry as water—this force this
charge or clumps of gravel plus an earthquake. there was little doubt, but
purpose remained unsaid, while I hear feelings. so soon into a birthday.
needing to impress. while this one is beyond our calligraphy. I can’t grasp it.
I can’t reenact it. I am left with reality where daughters call it algorithms;
such allegories, nay, such airborne talismans, where a man was so low it was
religious. this fright in souls this familiar rationalism while something
stated plainly: “You have done this deed.” only a madman holds guns when
something is obvious while the doctor is an objective-subjectivist. (the battle
to see more, or the cadence so polite, where we understand those seconds of
well-fever; as it took a treadmill or a deeper risk for a man where he wasn’t
liked; they trade out, they come for essence, it was fantastic fury; to die
forever, to mis-fathom where islands vanish so close to debris.)
