I did not do as was done, with terrorizing regret, I
did as impulse inside the filth of the graves those caves above hills, a soul
might climb his mountain. With soul the health of spirit too amazed by body the
arts of physicality. It never
comes to perform for traits, the mind as it endeavors, to move skies, to utter
life, breath as kef those tantalizing woods. It’s blasé the feeling. It’s trying
to correlate. Souls upon fears. Thunder of the mountains. Something has changed. Momentum is
curious about itself. Memories are mirrors inside of mire made sand. Another person might see nuance in
the mundane. She might flicker the stem to churn the wick. Wearing trials the
interior walls, watching self-struggle and its resistance. Hurting was its
intension. Bear with me. It’s crazy to remember, seated closeness, traits
running haywire. Such notoriety.
To possess obsession. To have much more in spirit. To carry pieces of every
myth. I did do as was done,
against what was oxygen, clearly it desires the ending reality. He was a man of peace, dangerous
soul, speaking compassion, he went through silence, the ultimate test. It can’t be pride, too many deaths. It
can’t be empathy, too heavy the universe. It hast to be greed, the forest over,
our inner importance. It comes
to perform for itself—a dynasty uprise, an empire rebellion, all in all, a
dream went awry.
It
awakens with agitation, prone to a blasé exuding, somewhat indifferent, with a
hint of excruciation. I met a
man, to appreciate his wisdom, to notice his wife, a certain air of
ingredients. Another said it
shifts. That was all he noticed. We wonder about giving what we need in return.
True to arc, we select who we need it from.
In
closing, the character of the valley, the darkness of the valley, the banquet
of the valley.
