If I tried it’d be a joke. I live, I suppose. So gray my perspective of humans. I used to celebrate us—humans, that is. I wonder now—how’ll we’ll condemn each other. The film is on repeat. To go so into self, to adore like dying is easy, to ask for nothing more—than unconditional us-ness. People ache in pains, trying to ignore reality, hoping for a change in humans. But—back to aesthetics.
To have laid eyes on magic, mystic upon its birth, to place yoga in hands—too much upon a whisper, too much damage, who in hell cares? I keep waiting, and I apologize for saying it, but I pray upon you with a new fire, a liaison, a fret in bones, to drag the sun, to abuse the moon. To love like crazy, to have no time for existence, to be filled with enigma. Why not a fantasy for us—never into our misery, nevermore into a bleak future. Just imagine, looking at one you hate in parts; indeed, some do this presently. What in hell is going on? Too consumed, and it goes down a level, to see they don’t see you. Indeed, be careful, a thief is in the church. Who cares the way you do?
