The gut by its war, anguished by isolation, pronged by
myriads. Like intestines, disorder is in motion, no matter the normality, it
took pangs to get there. The rigid life—hours at discoveries, many edifying
elements, tales. The winking portrait, by a daunting exhibition, depression is
an art. Some see pain as hell’s trajectory, poisoned wine, or segue into
paradise. By wails in battles, deep dark uneasiness, to assert beauty in the
rescue.
I exhale disorder, whisking inside, the skies are
foggy. Outside the logs are burning, a precious friend is there, it’s been a
long time. Fair mischief, inner ambivalence, aimless elements—to desire
participation, to shift, shake, and exist in color, the crayon life. To brave atmosphere,
tiptoeing winds, setting boulders aside—climbing the good hills. A lively
routine, spacial creatures, planning romance. Beautiful ritual. Cadence face.
Reaching for perfection. To listen to imperceptibility, fueled by esoteria, the
vibration has levels.
I wrestle analyses. I tackle existence. A passive soul.
A chasing soul. A Taoist soul. Spirit is chemistry. Aggression is deliberate.
Intimidation is internal.
I inhale disorder, feeling its mist, moving through
vestibules and islands and webs.
