The goal is more
happiness—afflicted by self-behavior, rotting in sabotage. The goal is
uncontrollable chi, insoluble passion, inexorable joys; if to die once, as
opposed to the many deaths, if to harness transcension—in all things. Humans
look to one another—to sing the many screens, the theaters, the stages, fraught
by faces, loaded with promises, the issue lies in one becoming tired—distressed
by the work, the duty of keeping another happy.
There comes a love
so rich in satisfaction—the dragon, the snake, no greater assimilation: to
awaken smiling over words, moving into action, pleased to be close, patient in
each person, at love with the reality; to die when each hurts, to have
receptivity, an effect over each other; passion remains pleasing, ecstasy is
accessible, fulfillment comes readily—the eyes reach an inner space, soft music
is living, pain is lessened, merely by presence.
It sounds
fictional. Is it pleasing—made to pleasure throughout a lifespan? The beauty in
her art—the rhythm in his lyrics—the poetry, prose, existence, and escape. To
adore each other, like birdsong, like permanence, sustained in excellence.
Brown-beige eyes, pouty/rich lips, pure explosion when alive—as never without
breath, racing to achieve with terrors to lose.
