Never such vague arts. Never a soul, a musician, as able to speak plainly.
I was in midst of a sentence and you appeared.
Spirit is unclear, to sense what we can’t see, we call it delusion.
When do we count on Intuition?
I spend time unthought of.
I spend time in concentration.
I sense in chi a splinter, rending souls asunder.
I don’t fathom unnecessary; it seems unnecessary.
A man swore by a horse, despite evidence, he bet his heart, his soul.
I hope it gets better.
Where does madness drop a spirit?
I would lie; it means so little.
It becomes altered by perception. If one will give fifty years to it, despite losses, what have I to suggest?
In ignoring it, in asking for purpose, in knowing it has so little for me, it learns of itself.
Complexity. Perplexity. To chase a ship across seas.
To hope of a star, to wish during pain, alive, aching.
I was sitting in a chair, when you appeared.
I feel something is askew, far reaching to act as if.
