The book opens to page one, refaced, it doesn’t avail,
stories told, meaning seeming askew—living by intuition.
Rooms are filled with radiance.
Something’s missing—deeper seas, sable-colored souls,
with love sounding ancient, symbolic, antiquated, out to lunch.
Admiration!
Palms are filled with dust. Dirt flung. Gowns torn,
rend asunder.
Whatever it is—in has memory, intelligence, scheme,
scam, and skill. Itself, a component of self, foreign country, untaught
dimensions, taken to extremes, one forgets to unleash tears. Mountain sacredity.
Langurs lounging. Swimming airs—it must be as it seems, if not, Skeptics are
incorrect, thus, surface is deceptive. To have sensation—dolphins mid-waves, to
awaken a little sweaty: mirrors to methodology, theoretical verses practical,
many mistaken as passing by. Social creatures seem skilled. Introverts get a
ruined name. Extroverts seem to push boundaries, said, unheard, until it
catches one’s ear. With art comes concentration, tapping into self, moving into
tides: mythos legends, pathos concerns, ethos as valued
over knowledge: febrile language, anxiety in treasuries, discussing plankton.
