The Only One True Affection

 

the most gorgeous in dying souls to have loved with rain falling; the damaged on mere glitter to have ingested miracle poison; aside a lake in a haven so addicted to adoring Love.

 

can’t negotiate with a given heart—to have loved like grassy bugs, so many haystacks, and one needle.

 

i stand amazed at the experience, the churning and chiming, to need boundaries in a mind known for roaming randomly; so hard on Love, so easy on pain, the lecture of the valley, and the spirits were bawling; eating sulfur so late in life, realizing, in a hot second, the interior is why marriages go the distance: pure resonance, concentration, violence and

 

voltage—screaming something too subtle to articulate.

 

so argue with time the villain of the species, with existence becoming one tremendous blur.

 

pulled at muscles and memories suffocating at moments, too much to hex the loving, giving, caring soul. such simple language—like orthodox kingdoms, secluded inside of an iconoclastic spirit;

 

the omission of the excellence, seeing in time the penalty for hasty wordage—as one denotes of more value than completeness; too easy on perceptions, too angry with invisibility, so cultured, so in seclusion—but i felt like seasons of resistance, echoing the nights of hawks, livid into a womb, desiring one too executive to un-claim

 

—such sweet value, so much the way we kill each other, one event, a soul destroys a number of years—needing a guarantee, trying to give the guarantee, falling into havoc, vice, chemistry, the valley of the one wrestling with too much to give analyses—live on!  

Measured Against An Ideal

 

so much resentment between time and space, so many mechanics, the crane has frightened the scarecrow—some anchor we desire, without the reign of its authority, just the security of the dove. the curse has a name, a voice, it doesn’t mean one is lost, without redemption, it means—one has something indelible chasing, arriving, residing in his spirit. the florist is in the garden, she counts flowers and petals and has a time with her space; many nemesias are ecclesial. the dewdrops are ephemeral. the dream in its intimidation is concerned with the quality of remembering—the balances, the hurtles, the cure for the flagrant noise, not vocal, unspoken, some space inside—weathered or seasonal. (i was unclear for a time. such powerful persistence. used to believe in automated writing—finding self this way. to listen to vampire eyes, cultic understanding, or a quack, with his reasoning skills; rigorous/religious uncertainty, baffling cries, much remedy in retraining.) the dahlias are delightful. a smile means comfort in a moment—a genuine smile. sure adrenaline rush, wistful examination, prone to slant and dwell in days of old. i haven’t said what was meant to be said, dwindling into essence, a subconscious scavenger; some inner paradise, filled with pictures, with apples appearing; no one knows with spectrum to earth, or skies to clouds, to have lived, only to have doubted existence.  

10 East To The 110 North

 

ruined milk, rice bread, and a vision to manage a legacy. to sew an empire with pain under her nails screaming something about American Oxygen. the theft of amazement, the value of losing, if but a friend to win. the beige Yankee, the throwback classic, much rain into a diamond, and to love is a penalty—it should be a miracle. so charged, enlarged at birth, many chasing, cursing, and blessing my genealogy; all held in mercy, maniacal genetics, gears motion into a galaxy; at the boneyard, near the Bonehouse, such slaughter, such solace, looking at her became quite painful. so lost, so many images, needing to believe the stranger is the soul to adore me—shot and bleeding, a friend cupped my fluid, like hell in arms to associate with a virus executing dear legacies. a gulf between us, a garb for Jesus, to gasp at a woman so pure in the final leaf stack. at the peak of the skies, the skyline in leaking, the soul is on a plate; they eat me, they drink me, i give it to Christ. brushwork to flypaper, fleeing is a challenge, i saw a naked perfection, i saw a woman too glow to be my solace. the taste of sweat, the teasing of matrimony, would you worship union until the grim-reaper pops up? the haunted house, the haven hell, the healing hex—so touched, so torn, too special, too susurrous, the last of a lenient legacy. complete holy satire, the unclear clarity, the relocated sameness. if to die in those walls, to adore like living is illegal, doing a hundred mile per hour on the 10 east.   

Either All of The Person or Uneasiness

 

to adore as found in curtains the acceptance of the soul. you come through time and portal into an atmosphere unlocking its furies. loving you is easily accomplished. albeit, you adore—you hide in plain sight. wrapping into you, the form of existence, comes to complete mirage, ghosts, most unable to define you. if granted womb and execution—giving spirit to adjust, a soul loses pieces and parts of his nonexistence. so ensconced in pains the rivers over skies, as it was, in alteration, it now is. too much depending on auras. too much delirium. as a child thought in himself, he became a man, and started to adjust his thoughts. and some lady, as in unknown to us, in plain sight, with affliction, to swim the great seas, to return with melancholia, smiling at one’s birth. a man inside. a woman inside. either developed or developing.     we need think the best of others; not at the risk of unseeing traits.     either it’s adored, understood, or found repulsive.     the mystery is in the lady a man was set to worship; the esoteria is in the non-definition surrounding the aura of the man she adores.     in adoring, the actions might be tamed, in plurality, the ability to love as postmodern souls, the sharing element, the execution element, the indirect element—might be awakened; too much will destroy, in adjustment, or resistance—souls become aloof.     to cherish comes with requirements—as it ought not to; in search for guarantees, one hushes his or her development; in needing particulars, as a rule, wholeness of character, becomes illusive; in performing, one loves the performer, while the performer resents the observer.      

Is a Ghost In The Personality?

 

we say it’s a ghost—this is familiar language—but it doesn’t say anything tangible. if one said—it sleeps in the personality, embedded through trauma, we might perk up. as in resting, it must awaken, this haunting, we designate as an apparition. while the disorder does sleep, it’s mainly awakened, as hereditary, and we call this a phantom. so the fortunate or unfortunate one—has a ghost, so to speak, in the personality, and a phantom in the genetics. by phantom, one speaks to another reality, feuding with reality, ensconced in perceptual conflict. nothing is inauthentic, nothing is authentic, here is where two might beg to differ. each one of us are different. people travel far and wide for many an introduction. or something obscure may take its course. we fail to assert—many study what most are becoming, cautious concerning its whereabouts. by some strange occurrence (trauma), something systematic, some alteration began germinating in the personality. it became an entity—with thoughts, feelings, motives; if unaddressed, it becomes a deviation from the norm, powerful in itself, and thus, a threat to ruling overseers. in and of itself, it poses a concern, in what officials have witnessed, it is of concern, all the way around, it’s a complete project: one needs to determine if it’s good or bad (the split)— both are monitored closely—neither are believed entirely. here, we concentrate on the personality, as split, by the one where the trauma originated. it’s not always the onslaught activity, but the repetition, while often, it’s the onslaught activity—nevertheless, an alteration of the self, cracks, and begins to create itself in preparation to deal with the continued site of trauma activity. many will tap in. many will exacerbate the trauma. in everything one gives, it will come back to antagonize. this last part is perplexing. we wonder if the haunting, by officials, is necessary.     

Immaterial Physicality

 

split across hemispheres, in twain, personality asunder.

 

with an extraordinary imagination, braiding invisibility, churning and turning images.

 

awakening in sweat, eating stems, preparing for right vs. wrong.

 

cursed and blessed. minimalism and maximalism. pain and healing.

 

the embrace of theology. the days of Good News. the psychedelic faith.

 

or feeling unworthy, kneeling at the cliff, adoring some tender undercurrent.

 

adoring more in frames, an outer observation, by interior phenomenon.

 

wrists and shame; estuaries and fungi; rules, and fraught by outbursts.

 

such a calming voice, fevered by kind acts, so delicate and strong.

 

upon a symbol, decided in an ankh, a Cross, lodged in itself.

 

the enchanted winds, the rising sun, the nightly moon; such fair creatures.

 

such innocence, tarsier eye-prints, brains capable of softer numen material.

 

if into the personality, assigned the brooks, into the mountains—the cages are displeasing.

 

sore unbalanced existence, speckled with spontaneity, or trained to take tranquilizers.

 

such super suspense, courtyards filled with hopes and dreams, colored in vulnerability.

 

taken to sprinting—most steadily, wherewith, both body and soul—the sky as it secludes.

 

torching through fields, deeper trust, into palms, looking at pikers—chasing as we soar.

 

so much to conquer, established in souls, given to everything i’ve dreamed.

 

if struck with aphasia, needing to utter one spell, one prayer, i’d plead in time.

Symphony Winds

 

the rising of breeds, like ancient realism, and pathological errors. steel seems like rabid chains, inner swirling, the chasing of time.

 

a granny sits and listens, a hundred years of wisdom, and unrelenting.

 

it feels like piercing Christ, drinking more berries, the table now bears witness.

 

neuronic telekinesis, two gifted souls, as never mentioned the in-between.

 

if dyeing ambitions, fused together, the soul is computed.

 

myriad spirits, blessings and excellence, pure resurrection.

 

itchy brains, at love for results, Rumi has designed essence. we follow.

 

such luscious fruit, by far a mantle, humanity holds something obscure.

 

(more resistant to science.)

 

yoga as the relief, or sweat lodges, an interconnected flicker.

 

sweet mystic matrimony, such writhing agonies, the pictures of invisibility.

 

and aqua pearls, turquoise rubies, colors of Africa. with

 

a capella seekers, duet miracles, the symphony speaks about Yahweh.

 

if not for literature, and remarkable saints, the great war, managing the dispensation of knowledge.

with woes, to adore the season, while disputing the weather.

 

feeling concerned, scheduled to experience life, the rhythm, art, and stream.

the last of empires, the final critique, the soul’s reservoir.

Into Hell’s Deaths

 

Lydia the dream, caught in trance, so beautiful, too wonderful to love in passing. I was reading The Prophet, I was whelmed into soil, tired of talking, tired of saying, it cures, when it hurts. The seaward blames, the FBI agent, makes her attractive, most dangerous. Left for deceased, or shipping to Greece, saying enough to love like dying. Could never compete, the island is painted with favor, the Orpheus of the light, the chase of the zillions, one in a trillion, one chance, so residential the last turn. She might come to life, sucking a snakebite, living a dream. It seems important, it seems many serving the walls, so ecliptic, so cured. Again, like superstition, like rolling into traffic, to have adored sight seen in one last request. Traveling hells, fighting to breathe, I just need her life; the gates of the minds, as flung open, the heart speeding into its language. To wonder of excellence—How to travail with joy, as opposed to terror, or pain, in a dungeon? Bloody eyes, flesh blurred, touching like animals; so much (needed) disrespect, as delivered to tales, a man’s life becomes an allegory. Gibran makes a tremendous point: “…who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?” So much in crystals, so much topaz, too much mica; the pain is pivotal, her body is legal, a problem, a mind treasure. So tortured, to touch, afraid it becomes the last rescue mission.    

Befuddles When Others Are …

 

aside my life, my cardiac spasms, so ecliptic the skies, those redeem the land;

more preachers, orators, priests and bishops;

so cold inside, much debate on identity, so many have scaled uneasily.

in saying so little—the pavement has spoken—we find lethargic assurance.

 

much consumed by stepfather, a symbol, much the pain of an owl, much the symbol of a man afraid:

to lose wife, family, self, and wrestle with addiction;

the blood blue ocean, those ceramic eyes, those spirit filters

 

—as racing into souls, to have loved one last time, knowing everything is riding on the last adored.

 

by a dynasty of jewels, rereading Seneca, trying to fathom the last hours by Socrates

—and its connection to holy scriptures.

 

it’s amazing how capital letters, their absence, speak in totality to a major disposition.

 

some wrestle with this, as roaming Greece, much pride in this nation of wolves.

 

many warriors, like Spartans, Samurais, Creatures and what isn’t written.

 

much godship. such exhibitions, the love of souls and mystics and cultic fires;

 

the last of a dying breed, before medicine proper, maybe a drill, a hole, in one’s cranium;

 

so sick as we dance, so developed as we linger, what finds in itself a deficit, an incompletion; to live the laws of alchemy, to ingratiate wicca, to go further back into the first witches; blended with the days of dying, the bones and skeletons of golden flames—the root of the psychiatrist, the dearest secret,

 

if it lives inside, it will float.   

The Native Land

 

by the expensive autograph, the expensive rain, the soul on auction; eating excellence, remembering it hurts—like hell is illegal—the times it was us, grieving the tussle, edging many futures. into the melody, listening for content, it’s been a longer run; the maps wheeze, the almanac is a miracle, one palm on the steering skies. such a gulf in us, religious country, atheistic sciences, been silent to it; never told his secret, his concerns, a nation Latin like sandals.     was given nothing, born with schizophrenia, as far back as she could remember; bawling over riches, died in poverty, left us two daughters, a granddaughter and one lizard sinning out on hell.     much tugging to get attention. more a recipe for dying softly. looking at a woman i admire, i’de croak with, living with illness. it creeps in, it can’t break from us, it abides in suspense—the affection for a few, the love for everyone, the distance from self above all things—screaming out at identity.     tell me, “Serenity,” passing by, living for family, wife, friends, and kids. tell me, “It churns,” the quest for the future, rapid into a cycle, the system correcting its mistakes and fears, too many becoming the new 2pac.     

so many hungry, so many tentacles, mental millipedes—striking out, into furious lands, so many more the native sunrise; the tongue born here, the PTSD inside here, the grim-reaper, when it’s done, they’ll say something famous.       

Gracious Detriments

 

you open with wings, digging deeper, growing feathers; the long-distance kiss, the fever grieving, the filled pockets—and everyone is watching.     the first meeting, the second loss, the rehabilitated excellence; open further, do eight years on one poem, live according to a California life—the yogi—gone deeper, the inrush in night vessels, the curves and corners, an all-life destructive passion.     digging deeper for Christ, i see Lucifer, i heard it was good to see bible figures; such silence in deserts, so metaphorical, like living isn’t difficult; cold at times, warmth of a thousand bulls, at the airport in Egypt.     what’s the missing link, focused on a maskless life?     running into myself, confronting his excellence, asking for full accountability. and Love sits there, right inside, as i become more detached from myself. moving so fast, like a NY minute, so bioluminescent—such a metamorphosis; the gunning empires, the oxygen she spoke about, the anxiety in the infant—born with PTSD.     a new scarf, a holy handkerchief, everyone must heal—so optimistic, i heard Jesus is walking, they must learn to churn the cycle.     a new California, known for revamping, known for immigrants, fast cars, porn, and religiosity.

each mission comes with resistance. the whole world is watching. failing felt like starting over. succeeding felt like the most gracious of all detriments.    

To The Freedoms

 

those tiny footprints, on the tiny creature, just learning to crawl; the play bunny, the green snake, the drool, and yelps, and playfulness; so gothic for adults, so strained, looking into spaces—hoping for happiness, hoping for explanation, trailing ideals, and ideas, searching for the inexplicable. always needing more, never quite satisfied, I suppose the hope is—there is more.     like upon some sphere, as to appear, some creature so enthralling, so encompassing, by soul in skies, by dreams and rites and damages; so much courage, to have been proven wrong, no remorse for subtleties—either blatant proof or nothing.     more for the dreams, in the vestibules, with passion blazing into the universe. only One struck the dances.     only heaven knew the arts.     the cathedrals are beautiful. chants from Notre Dame—Bishops and nuns—the campus priests.     so exposed to silence, enveloped in silence, given to old memories in silence; the party of the souls, the movement of the spirits, the pride of the one giving birth; the gorgeous bride, the church as groom, the theologian coerced to repent; by measure of forces, by something private, if to tell interpretation—is to be ostracized.

so fair the leopard, still arranging spots, it’s a long ways to the first meeting. so skewed at points, so alive those seconds, one wailing cry!  

Souls Carry Founts

 

the skies possess memories.

electricity is witness to barriers.

utterance of the voicebox—strange wallpaper, echoes of visuals.

the cellar as it whelms;

cultural excellence;

still outdated. by a wound

we bond. by earnest exercise it becomes an exorcism. some sub-

personality; some lethal business, trying to keep

faith, and mercy, many prayers in Spanglish.

wires are about the citadel.

fathers are unsaid, made present, seeking closure.

it becomes unique …

in a received gift, something is made reachable:

full converse; removed mounts; a tear might fall.

 

at times, nothing makes sense.

why have we been put here?

the greatest answer is—to help others.

we sense many need assistance, if granted a gift,

to sound out every clemency—for art as

soul, for pain as starting point,

for love as miracle.

Sky Diary: Inconvenience as Pivot Genius

 

there’s a threshold—our dos and don’ts, laughs and wilderness, some master them. when it should hurt, if it seems it doesn’t, this causes a controversy.

 

to dine with sharks, to succumb to impulses, we laugh as time heals wounds. the riddles are difficult—the sound is unsung—I can’t resist much longer. to omit the science, to relent against aging, and aging, nonetheless; crunch time. the diligent woman, the praised soul, like adoring despite uncertainties. the ocean hit the curvatures, it’s been that way, we don’t doubt oceans. many upheavals, moist temples, stomach feeling some way. the song is sounding, the trumpets are explosive, reality is playing essence. one the album, listens closely, never heard the album. another knits and crochets for years.

 

irony has a temperature, inside the tempest, most are forced to comfort self: knotted, meditating some ideal, becoming resentful of the promises.

 

the beige sandcastle, the wooden box, even antiquity.

 

turquoise flower, purer ambiguity, the frenzy of the silence.

 

by the insisting, one must persist, then it loses its cache. the experts might be different, I just realized, it’s different coming out of coercion.

 

many disagreements, one puts us in the seat they sat in: at scientific emotion, metaphysical feelings, arms keep us at a distance.

 

at points, we never ask for passion, just expertise, I’ll leave that alone.

 

the delicate monster, delicate vices, alarmingly, we sail auras.

 

to pitch a feeling, dwelling in sentiments, it’s been so long—I wonder if it meant to happen. what was going on? how long doing filthy? how many condemned for experimental reasons?

the sky is an octopus. tombs vibrate. soon, the universe answers. seahorses and tiny souls. caimans and nephews. the wolf has a region. it shocked me to realize naivety. to never meet a person, nothing of their story, and to agree, and side so easily.

 

the page was vocal. it was never silent. the illness becomes the precipice. many concerns. many jarring realities. truth pedals, they fall to asphalt, they die softly. the fantasy didn’t last long. I respect the essence. I give distance to my thoughts. it must have ached. such a message. to need it that way—as to feel alive again. the resented creatures. the celebration. to insist on another not suffering enough. an inversion on goodness. a swarming reality. to be filled with sheer disdain. to dislike, nay, despise a person’s breath. to have certified, deep in self, to abhor anyone that disbelieves the soul—to have issue with total insight, the spirit rushing into life, the beauty of one feeling the grip slipping. the obedience to it, well-thought out, to pursue it, and accept the spirit-spasms.        

Turquoise Spigot Seas

 

if to weave some wheel the weight of stars

if to watch the strong desire the pain in

flowers

much itchy wool, worthy of the prose, arcs

screaming passion, so white of us, so

black of us, recoiling from that

 

your mind never yields over yams with

potatoes; I writhe like wheat on

a sunny winter’s day, some zone for souls,

some teary-eyed flower, upon a glass

aside a wife, cringing at your absence.

 

upon a wise wing, into sour salt, the

next in

terrors, horrors, unbeknownst of what’s

there, half asleep, can never claim if

it was reality, southern charm, or

northern illusion.

Intestines Paint Art

 

most die at the truths concerning the universe (human inclination); others hear something different—others live in a bubble (blind courage). i tried the cocoon, it hurts, out the concrete blossoms a smarter flower (intuition born); so appealing in essence, so quiet in person, with so much to compose (a lesbian author): the novella heart, the novel mind, the memoir intentions.

 

closer to the fate of the soul in the essence of the skies; never seen much, aside for a full building, liquor on asphalt, the building foggy—dice swirling, mathematics blurry, the deepness is surprising. up all night. class in an hour. “I wore this yesterday.”

 

too much to see, as in failing into ecstasy, I knew she was a billion on a rooftop. much into the quickness, that feeling, like beauty is at the skies. to rain on our spirits, to see nakedness, just to give over to a given second. such a hypocrite, so refunded, so crude at moments; used to live, was raw with life, off in Arizona, met a tender excellence; indeed, so spectacular, as never

 

understood, as knowing the best, and only the best of a person. rumbling, fighting, laughing, so provocative, if only those three days forever.

 

aside a towel, or wrapped in selfsame towel, soft scented, elegant, and recharged. such stubby toes, sweet, treasured sexuality, the value of a bank owned by the Morgan’s. crumbling lower, nicotine on his tongue, just fell out with a trillion-dollar opportunity. moving my mannequins, enlisting my pantomimes, so perfect the way the harlequin is just rising:

 

at some atypical ventriloquist, some inside jury, some type of a problem.    

 

i see the best in skies, suspended over a navy of vessels, falling into a cup inside heaven; meeting David, playing chess with Solomon, hearing it clearly, “If I could, I’d do it better.”

 

a hunting machine, call me in contempt, but they seem to need a few monsters; hearing it in silence, grumbling, so hungry for such as bathed in rain; the road is longer, the pebbles have voices, the odor used to smell odiferous; never changed, always changed, looking at a basket of

 

timecards. amazed to have met. some are a pleasure to have sung pains with; it seems amazing to want it forever: such the best of self, the worst in a jar, at our behaviors, nearing make-believe, too raw for make-believe.

 

building a penthouse, such a mansion, many rooms with doves and pigeons and geese, the goose laid an egg—so golden, such good beginnings.         

Too Zealous During Seasons

 

religion becomes its chorus, if judgement is suspended, the investigation is scientific—finding its fever, vault, and frustration.

 

i wasn’t correct in my innovation, miles treaded to get closer, with a genius or three watching. sweet animation, such cartoon banter, trying to uplift integrity.

 

the believing brains are steady or unsteady; the systematic doubters are sane or insane; the zealot is most troublesome.

 

too much rushing. too much to assert. most are just as eager.

 

the bondage of the feeling, the remorse in the action, found affected more than credited.

 

a day or two, more is too much, most ask pain to vanish—until pain becomes a modality.     

 

the inner witness, the resilient witness, documents each element.

 

many songbirds harp freely, upon senses, and poetic frenzy, flight, and existence.

voices at combat, nothing critical, just overseeing debates; some core reality, on a Buddhist Island.

 

each sentence is for an element, some component, more critical than encouraging. to champion the great exterior, those lakes inside, the one big ship.

 

as into mystic woes, upon mystic skies, aside mystic puzzles; the interior massacre, in order to arise, growing at a rapid pace; intelligence splattered, humans made tragic, or teenagers finding grace.

 

such writhing is Madagascar. such combat in Los Angeles. codes of conduct depend on classes of participants.

 

the melic ambition, the scores of sacrifices, those at war to breathe—wrestling with higher components. such are in elevated arenas. we must tackle the lion.

 

the travesty of the most beautiful element afforded us—Love. we seem to get it right—only with practice—or a fear of losing inheritance.

California: Cosmic Inverted Body

 

i see the Passion in the eyes of one

adrift; i feel patience, hear fusion,

as one soul devastates the atmosphere.

so much power. Does it hurt? so wild we

die, left to rot, left to refute Sadducees.

so viral, so electric, such palatial

thighs. so Versace, so clear, fretted by

reality, much pain, in a name, to make

its fire. Has time aborted itself?

the fame in its force, to have a reason

worthy of adherence, mistakenly

unmistaken; to eat a phantom, in

one brief second, sweet brevity, assuming

what we see, presuming what we learn,

into a split second to sit by watching.

back upon the grid. his life an episode.

not many just give a spouse away.

out of Chicago—most can’t understand,

as permitting fate to take its course,

when a person is set on an action.

roaming NYC streets, visiting Bard

College, witnessing powerful women.

streaming inside, slow motion inside, i

see the Passion in the eyes of one

adrift. I sense the loyalty of dreams

the powerhouse soul, the beauty in

its threshing, at some tower, falling

into ascension. by the struggling

force, at a soul’s lecture, confused to

have existence, with deep troubles, as

complex excellence—watching the

apparatus churn. if it can’t be changed,

one will notice steel, the phantom

watching, the spirits running amuck.

much interior yearning, or so ethical,

it gets complicated; the feral fire—

into instrumental, the mystery lungs,

fevered as souls, frantic as powers, to

live with vacancies, vibrations, valiant

spirits; the penalty for loving sight

unseen, so enthralled by converse, so

consumed by a promise, if it hurts.       

Behind The Phantom

 

upon a grandfather clock, watching time, slipping into darkness; the woes of the furnace, the ghosts watching, that feeling that doesn’t move. mastery of the condition, pure existential plight, the round-and-round about it. to become the warmth of the solace—some privilege in essence, participating in the conundrum. the daily Exercises must work. the Flowing Light must examine the soul; as appointed in spirit—to tend to spirit. some strange island, a face in a mountain, the communion is the commission. so many fieldtrips, so many passing as we go, so many needing affection.     it seems the chef of the socialites is weaving; the maestro is consoling anxiety; and the symphony is soaring into excellence. as trains come to pass, and life is an umbrella of affairs, while dishonesty seems to exist; some pivotal exhibit, some required furniture, some type of studying of itself.     soft, palatial lenses; phantom palms; every word mustn’t be authenticated, but it seldom isn’t. the brokers of society, become emotional accountants, drained of the beauty built on lies—such gorgeous, radiant lies, such necessary to love in times, sweet nectar made ingenious through lies; as faulting a soul for the love bestowed upon spirits with lies; the lifegiving lie, the sole transgression, as never so ecstatic as when the lie was delivered. the noetic capacity, of a treatise on lies, such different mysticism, such iridescent religiosity.