I get tired of ills, willing the great night, skilled at something passé. So askew, so fast, to imagine how humans feel. I bled the clock, chilled on ice, thought it unreal. It was a bouquet of nightmares, a fret in a feeling, to see something ironic—like kisses on sight, like pain in mountains, like Exodus on history. I fuse well. I try never to embellish the truths. I heard where some are at, I couldn’t condone that. To miss some mind picture, never an actuality, to feel part slanted. No one quite fathoms that—until it’s analyzed. I was warm emotions, flowing through grays, sensing some disconnect. Not many are sensing it, this flavor, the way we sell ourselves. I feel awful for it. I had to change my thoughts. I had to see it clearly. The music is bleeding, jazz is dying. The apes are depressed. It seems to get lower, or it seems to sit stillness, with one in dreams, in ancient context, to compare a contrast with nature. What’s best for souls—framed in guitars, trying to impress nightfall. And loving seems incredible, to hanker over ideals, to sum life up in a word called Love. I beg to differ. Hated for that. But life might be intelligence. Does intelligence love? We tread a thinner line. We ask a significant question.
