the
fleece grieves its complexion. so put together, selling trends, too much for
most thundering. the internal battle—wanting to feel clean—surprised it
requires an entire existence. when it’s game grime, or slime pains, the
invisible soul appears: morals and ethics, serenity and relapses, fretting the
design—tarrying with concerns, groundless beliefs, so unbridled, devastated by
more existence. so silent. so deliberate. it hurts to type. a gnat. a building.
so pure and unmixed. over yonder they die. nearby they live. with most carrying
anvils and crucibles the first crucifix. so nauseated, hearing wins, we all
need to have certain imagery. so tacit, unspoken, like it matters for reasons.
would one cherish, beyond description, the night as it becomes the existence;
so benighted, so belated, so bejeweled; like running to Greece, if to take a
break, some can’t fathom that. so emotional, so out of line, the way we
determine the moods: pills or liquor, needing something for chemistry, thought
to outwit a phantom. untamed. keeping composure. it seems a contradiction. much
in contrasts, grim in similarities, most immortal—the chaste sinning, needing
transgression, if to receive mercy—the design is lethal. at an armchair, after
years on the markings, identity seeming a construct of history—so when is it
mine?
