the terror becomes the comfort or blanket or cold, stiff, realization. a man needs to love, but mother is vehement, or father is absent. I speak as painting a lonely corner, where his words adjust against him. but truth is its deliverance. it isn’t always favorable. nor does it exonerate situationally.
instead, it places facts higher, it wonders of what we know, it determines ignorance versus deliberate neglect. I ate my conviction, where, as usual, the horizon is suffocating. we stress. we deny. we kill each other.
a man must comply where networking is vicious where I do not agree. we give it a different definition, hold that as tantamount, while contemning those who missed the transfer. language becomes violent. discomfort must linger. as it hovers right in our auras. (we feel obligated, in every respect, to voice our disapprovals) …
but strangers have so little for others or peoples aren’t trying to carry strangers & life is quite short to carry too many naysayers; the gift of the solace those avenues closed while soul steady opens; such a relationship, it should remain professional, where personal elements are tucked in their files.
nonetheless, our distaste for theology, whereby, for one group, theology should go away.
such higher reasoning while we need esteem but often it goes astray. one is fraught, physically hurt, so much a galloping spirit; to have died early to have channeled early if but such contempt spread on their person.
something to write about or something to discuss, while this too becomes frustration.
so
many issues. such linear mistakes. while many are dying, trying to breathe,
having a hard time congratulating survivor(s).
I wanted to fret
or such dismay while despair is at his soul. someone has to live, indeed, with
phantoms in a phantasmagoria—those wraiths inside those happenings inside such
unreasonable receptors inside. to have something distinct, to skies with
screams, while passion leaks or dies or destroys quiet anxieties.
