I see, standing at intuition, a thought becomes an
image. You are proud. You are disgruntled. You are debating. Longer
deliberation, ending with, “No thank you,” as contradiction unglues asphalt. I
see, standing at intuition, a thought becomes an image. Some souls are vexed,
ethical, obeying the nature of How we ought to behave; so colored by
happenstance, hurting in nature, keeping to a set principle: “It hast to be
correct, else, it’s not feasible at all”: these people are bright, well-thought
out, near genius, at points, stressed, people we admire, give praise to, and
try to mimic. Without shortchanging them—they are strong. I see, standing at
intuition, a thought becomes an image. You are human. You are moved. You weigh
each thought. It sounds daunting. It comes naturally. Each sentence follows
another. Most desire you—more in private—you are up against instincts, measured
by actions, no one knows how you are moved. Coming to grips with ideals;
hearing the unheard; finding favor with spirits. I see, standing at intuition,
a thought becomes an image. I project on actual art. I believe in something
excellent. In quintessence, I knead what appeals to humanity.
