Upon a stupid, impetuous gesture, as given less thought than put into brushing one’s suede boots. It stuck with me. I had a human’s moment. I sense a great deal, roaming nonchalance. I find in time a dear secret: we chide our equals. The art is in life, to live it with passion. I saw an incredible reality, a formable base line, an insouciant drum. I would never say that. Life has put boundaries around ethicists. While one is wanton in some respects, one is subdued in more respects. I feel it’s embarrassing to be impetuous. I fret a faux pas already. And most get upset when a prospect doesn’t at least try. In examining this life, so many errors, such a blank stare. (I was with penalty for adoration; it meant so much; it was received with disdain. I ventured out and met a dove, an angelic type of personality, where everything is perceived as adorable. It lasted quickly. It dissolved swiftly. It has become a pleasant memory.) I couldn’t put my finger to it. Something is living. It isn’t total clarity. It just breathes differently. And I sense a soul in its excellence—spacing into physics, amassing specialties, such a grand possibility, so subdued the heart beats promise. To dye morality in grays; to feel mind muscles throbbing; thinking: I must go further. Never satisfied, or it comes while passing.
