I carry you. I try to discard you. You appear. You disappear. It was incautious works. People make errors, to affect others.
Music gentle into wonder. Calming summer inside. Someone pushing keys, ending sentiments, a desire for untraditional precepts.
To believe in one direction, where it isn’t true. Or fevered & ill in one area, while condemned & scattered in another area.
To see it eating atmosphere, hydroplaning upon brains, another with laughter in her breath: I could never upon a storm.
I carry you. I try to discard you. You appear. You disappear. It was improper works. One must contend with inclination. One must learn, if possible, to see what others will do.
Jazzy arts. Renaissance pains. Ambition works against itself, always open to more. For these reasons, a soul releases ideals: a soul trying desperately is sickened, a soul disregarding tradition, precepts, adopting new ones, is living.
We might suggest a rule because it gives leverage, never observing unsaid rule. In complaining one seems unsteady. No one is listening.
Wheels turn. No one is interested. Good souls die early (inside).
A spirit learns to dance. He becomes a machine. Souls become alarmed. With so many skeletons playing blues.
To have said so little, in discussing so much.
A woman will start off with ideals, study wedding magazines, & sing gently into skies: we ask, what took place? What changed?
Human interaction. No need in complaining.
Souls are fighting for ideals. They give meaning. The wires are oiled. The performers are tired of failing.
Performers are sharing instincts, silencing chimes, turning on the Great Scribbler.
