Put life on repeat—sameness of traumas, sameness of pleasures, until—the cycle can’t be snapped. Give us dearest redundancy. Give us everything we adore, as worship.
Indeed, teach us to lie to protect Truth.
Something coldness is in place; something incredible has taken place: look at her eyes!
It’s purpose of self; it’s deepest secrets; it keeps abusing itself.
I can’t get close to it—it fires into orbits, it’s an undercurrent, it’s underbrush.
Fragile inertia; jeopardized ikigai—flame as flippant—I can’t remember it.
She came like thunder. She made an indenture. She knit skies.
A soul cannot give what it does not possess. I suffer a deficit here. It aches. Such an inrush, to return agility, sensing self, sacrificed.
I thought about science, epitome of lights, to wonder why she suffers.
In loving is alike to in giving; to hope is alike to not knowing; in experiencing a person, fraught by amazements, to have forgotten ourselves.
