Has a person a right to admire
muses—to speak of admiration, else, serving in station—one infuriation? Just as
nervous as Peter—reviewing years before—rereading until scales fall. Too wise
to draft—like trained magicians—she seizes time, excellence. Days are moving recalcitrance,
frustration is rejecting admiration, most can’t tolerate multiplicity of arts.
Legs on moons—sunshine before rain—it was so dark inside. I was watching closely, saw nothing, just
enough to retreat; like wealth of roses, esthetics of museums, like mechanics
and throws, wild, convinced, in error. Never to feel that wave, never to exist
in skies, so supple the winds; as casual mystics, or strict mystics, or stern
faces. Paint melting, walls cascading, pains in essence, in dreams, in
deliverance of profanity. In summation, live freely, have days, have consciousness.
