I wonder what feels incredible—without repercussion,
endless, fortified by existence? I wonder what exists where it can’t be
defiled?
Grappling over thoughts, torches inside, they’re of
mixtures.
Iron gravity. Gravid reality. Neural sunrise.
Under sublime interior, topaz skies, to sense an
arrangement between souls. Violet loquats.
Such flux of an imbalance, many illusions, a writhing pendulum.
It will be tremendous.
Many lost reality—palming pictures, facing forbidden
beauty. Insistence as resistance. To insist is to resist an image.
We give rooms a title, furniture a sentiment, and
humans a number, a position. Mastery of anything might be mythical.
Many sensations, to have engaged majority, rawness of
souls, darkness imploded, to have rapture, light, to have peace.
