According to science, life has an explanation, more human, communion community. To enter winds, to flit upon a breeze, to swoosh through him. Amazed by brains, a mixture with hearts, walking through esoteria. I fathom—as it stands, copulation will never occur—so, fire upon a butterfly, gates screaming, feathers wafting, to know interior vetting. It took years; and it transferred, translucent rain, opulent math, so, mythic, mystic, a great deal of training, even Zen. I tranced out. I returned. Days whet with trying to decode a human, the most complex edifice in life. I believe in existential torpor; I suggest to self, something is writhing inside. A long time fretting those dice, mincing onions, shedding anxieties, to suddenly feel overhauled. I imagine there’s a few, such flashers, trekking through caves with a torch. I was clouded. I took to a vest in thoughts. I’m quite serious about it. As it stands, in finding one’s nucleus, one’s foci churns, everything must fly—first to lose, travesty—sliding through memories, to see a face, to hear a pang, growth through bone, marrow inside, asking for one turn to sing. Left Taoist. Debating inside. And it seems, we’ve entered into transcendence.
