that one feeling, hard to identify, sullen, made
serious, often with itself. that one feeling, sad to feel that feeling, moved
by its beauty, affected by cadence of its absence. you too have that feeling. i
saw it moving inside of you. it has a dance like birds of paradise. that
feeling is absorption, pampering nothing, in a trancelike state, torn by a non-agenda.
you saw the path as blank. i saw it as steady; the way that feeling climbs, its
intricacy, as a presence, so alone, unto a sudden recognition; so silent
inside, so vocal at seconds, such a harassment during adolescence. that feeling
is alike to concentration, it can’t be defined, albeit, i give it a certain
excellence. it will locate itself, communicating with itself, where the agent
too is itself—the two are insync. like synchronicity of some alien
understanding—to be divided as it comes, that feeling, to become absorbed. the
sentient mannequin, the talkative pantomime, the flying parakite; that feeling,
bringing it to fruition, so polite to a given task. the way it feels, much
effulgence, such humble flamboyance; the lactescent becomes the origin, to
realize, it comes from self, such becomes polychromatic. so postmodern, in its
absoluteness, that feeling, crossing arcs—without an absoluteness. you have
madness in that feeling. you have gladness in its presence, mixed with arid
weather. that feeling must be someone else, but it must be self, while it’s
altered by those scanning the terrain. like a grave too soon. like happiness
outlasting its visitation. that feeling! like skies disappearing, sudden to
return, not before the assertion of the absence. in speaking it, each will look
awkward.
