it
has been some time the fantasies the denial the motion. so evolved by
neurotransmitters I can’t decipher between regular and hypomanic energy. it feels
normal, until the pineal gland erupts, so, I might slow it down a bit. but Love
is mystery while so human to emerge as a cryptic creature. to live by
sympathies or host symphonies so opus such mastery such dear dying—for passion
simmers it curdles it resurrects—as beauty souls lost for devastated or so
tender an aroma: to dreamcast our images or to dreamscape our screams or too
close to fully expand. I know feelings these centipedes as one might wiggle
into its wilderness. our righteous decision. our motivated morals. while one
pines another exhales. such heartwood the center churns the firebrand is with
music. such underbrush such wheezing emotion to unlock cellos or mandolins or
pianos. by cultured souls much evolved by concentration where another wore all
white. by subtle insulation to find a person in mindstuff or so ignored it
seems to seduce you. such rickety association, such railing trains, while
avenues are painted by rich insecurities. I coerce my mind or pamper my
impulses where adoring someone must be by permission. our minds stippling
pictures, our hope scribbling prayers, while some internalize whistles or towermen.
