Such dear concentration, the line we trail, kicking rocks, listening to trains. I would imagine images, swayed by essence, to remember, it happens when we stop trying. I will never be as assumed, it isn’t me, I believe as I achieve—thrust through, begging in spirit, walking stalwartly, never to find the great weakness. Waiting no more, digging into self, I remember the infraction. How many years have passed? It was something in it, something deep inside, to demand accountability. Self-reflection is pivotal. Living to escape self. How far will it extend into insights? We walk alone, despite the myriad onlookers, filled with remorse, shame, retribution. Needing signs, even they abort us, it will never be as we presume it should be. Many of us are stubborn. To imagine a son was over punished, to imagine why he no longer repents. I’ll never meet you, you’ll be to your family, despite any type of inclination. But let’s be realer, it’s a manifestation of science, it gives life more than reality. Who cares about feeling it? It’s commonsense. What in hell are we hiding from? Like fucking kids. Either raw or nothing at all. A partway dance. Who in life pays attention?
