They called on salvation. Many were tampering with science.
In trying to find God, another became interested. Watching lowly.
What he thought he felt, what she swore she heard.
Years manipulating elements, it must mean something.
A soul was a psychopath, she became honest.
Certain features are adorable. Certain dreams keep with unison.
Rather 12, as they say. Rather the casket, as they assert.
It was lively seeing you; it was difficult walking away.
We fight to keep memories.
It was pain, in sensing you, I’m reminded, some pains are hard to leave behind.
After years, it hebetates itself.
And it keeps momentum, like a lifelong project. Existence is put on a back burner.
Can’t live—for getting revenge.
Maybe life isn’t as interesting, a child longing.
It’s worth pausing, to reevaluate, to ask, what should have meanings?
Never to mean for love, the goal was utter paranoia. To hate one so much he becomes enamored, so foolish.
To know with vital deaths the rage of an adversary.
Just waiting. It will drive one of us crazy: me in a cubicle. Life in its self-talk.
To keep a secret, to know it kills itself, with one forced to become meaningful.
With nothing meaning as much, to fret existence, with life loving alienation.
