The receptive would ask the essential angles—tug at
the new soul, in which, you have—with a level of surprise and disdain, with
crisis seeming its elevation—more watermelon in the winter, a lemon on
something beautiful, with wonder of purpose, so begotten as radiant—the fields
made sacred. Receptive mirrors would let live—the agony of existence, those
beige deserts, taking pride in family, friends, and insistence. Every letter is
a breath. Every anxiety is a response. Each thought drifting into crevices speaks
to resistance. No one knows the skies, behind the veil, as to realize Passion
in its excellence. The fever is the motive. It’s now the offshoot, with time
seeming incredible—as of importance, the falling of mirrors; receptive
creatures, many skills, losing something vital, in gaining discomfort, with
existence seeming to crosspollinate.
