back
to its alpha to divorce ideologies while dusty from its storm. so behind
on experience a heavy back or a light he can’t reach. so restless those tales
at night listening to his conscience. it was years those wines those blurry
morals. so accused so lately those eyes at baptism. while mother cries as a bit
too much as to awaken at a ward. so many existential baskets while pulling us
to find fire in a little box; the space in souls those diamonds of glass or
horrors to love what disappears. it was so furious it was so deadly while most
humans chain themselves; out of purity out of religiosity where it just gives
the best of its inheritance! we teach openness while we preach by body
behaviors, something aloof, distant, but docile. or hostile, lonely creatures,
engaged in our horizon, understood by a few tolerant souls. it’s found in us a
location by sociality where most mothers are furious: surefire defensiveness,
lakes compounded, such rage studying its satisfaction.
it
seemed unruly. it became unjustified. where it resisted so long, it became
common conversation. it seems relevant
as
pointing to behaviors where some are too indicative to call stereotypes. we
look for patterns, some are flagrant, where experience becomes visceral in a
hot second.
such
sockets or watts or electrical cords. while mommy is cooking, mommy is crying,
we fail to understand, mommy is desperate.
father
is in motion those scenes are coming in rumors, father is now in prison.
mommy
writes. mommy mourns. so much is cuffed in lonely stigmata. certain uneasiness,
or unpurchased malaise, where something necessary is fraught by rage, anger,
surefire hostility.
how
to decide to live for a person when that person isn’t present?
