the brain met itself, an asylum of
ghost-faces, while riding a streetcar. (I have read about life. every book is
its language. I often wonder what (you) write.) we play mind-ball or dodgeball
while we act politely. I remember a caustic tongue, or undergoing simultaneous
emotions, while a person was pulling at ingredients. I underwent fire or social
baptism or something we dare not mention. as souls teeter so tethered so thetic
into an anniversary: those invites those denials or pictured as one against
three dragons. (I fret an undercut, where a man forfeits, which is different
than strict repudiation. but this soul so egregious alongside The Ghost that
walks! so familiar by now so tedious into such years while feeling
comfortable.) I war with me. I sport opera affliction. I often shift mental logos.
such glasses our hour-ability so silky, such malfunction, or aware of
maladaptive properties. it should overwhelm, such forest inadequacies, but at
seconds, I am pleased! (there is pain in normality or wilderness in Portugal—this
is what it looks like: such bullfighting, such archery, while one argues that,
pain is everywhere. in darker corners we praise light where familiarity breeds
depreciation; but normality states a few ingredients: amateurs or cobras, deep
affectation, plus, mandatory emoting, while different doesn’t mean broken. (there
is a shift. where unnecessary elements have been repudiated—indeed, one abdicates
himself!) such an underbelly or such underbrush while one is novelty or outcast.
(it dawns the daunting reality: we sit at a pottery wheel, we watch sunbirds,
we examine the upholstery of existence; we love as best as orientation, we
dwell in shadows, or we place each foot in front of the other as we dance; we
make sons proud, we educate daughters, we attempt to look brighter when others
enter the room: it’s indefinable; it’s a halfpace climb; while souls create storyboards.
(I have more facts, such as to recreate the saga, while, nonetheless, admiring
Octavia: our outdoor magic our celebratory curse, while one never understands
why a person feels misread.)
