so
tender its anguish or born of sand an early day or therapeutic wisdom. a soul
with a vacancy a child with decisions or a soul sawing a violin. (one might
hate you come dear profanity while clearance becomes void; at backwaters wrestling
crocodiles if but a taste of clearance.) we weren’t forthright for we weren’t intimate
(links) where a child was in motion. indeed. what is intimacy? how
does it look;
for we seem to call most relations intimacy. it’s honest, or maybe not, while
we piccolo our demarcations. we, however, believe in this, it chances more
intimacy, where we are uncertain about a static, thus, immutable definition for
intimacy. it’s physical or unphysical. it’s rectitude or manipulative. it might
also be but one-sided. where a person is opened, another is closed, where such
might impose upon each other. while, nonetheless, we haven’t become intimate
as close
relatives where it might become concerned by hearts. (by sweet sorrow those
expressions where it might have swarmed: by dear resilience or utter mandate
such cirrus clouds as maimed at emotion or such needing perfection where
deviation is pure rejection.) this is but a thought where reality is part
religious while it’s part secular. but what is intimacy—if not impassioned legacies
or dynasties in letter or a family operating in communion. or, but
furthermore, intimacy is a filled
thought—such
as possessing properties, expressed by movements, where interior antiques speak
about needs or promises or even a felt pang as we sense an uneasy response;
hence, such moving fire, in such reality, while something isn’t calibrated:
those fumes for sensitivities, or those auras for sensitivities, while behavior
is mandated where sensories are haywire. such dear concern, while we know for
certain, expression is not above critique. but what is intimacy, especially, in
an environment needing deprivation?
intimacy is an
oasis a planet with rules where even they call it by violent intimacy. there is
alienated intimacy, or master/slave intimacy, or addict intimacies. where art
is human, while we look at resistant intimacy, even hatred comes by intimacy.
where one has emotion, one has intimacy, while we're not tackling those very
vague things we here intuit. but mother was a locomotive, as I hope times have
settled, where thinking clearly, or needing excellence, becomes too vital to efface.
is an inanimate person
normal? such an oxymoron, or a koan, or quite silly.
