The affair is imaginary. It remains confusing. I sense it was aloft upon a cloud, stillness, inner compass, bleeding sages. Cadence means something, its language, its garden, floored for no reason. It was us, Warrior. I smile during a laxed moment. I wonder about why—such a need, such a fancy: it seems larger than that. Surefire essence, ambivalence, preoccupation, dominance and monopoly—proving an immortal realization. Let it breathe! Unlatched feelings. Mesmerized constellations. Astrological trespass. The Condition keeps pushing: unrelenting. By mastery: by pains. The affair is imaginary. To speak in riddle: the two realities are conducive towards infatuation. It becomes the fate of priests and nuns. Mind cloisters; pash and windiness; gusts and rooms. Put the curse back. Indeed, Jesus was filled; so was Moses. Each knew it well. To ponder Thecla. To feel Ester. To ask Veronica how the hem felt. (To be akin to Spirit—to feel fraught, can’t see it, to imagine distance, with spirit so close, whelmed about it, engulfed by it, like near rabid behind it.) To empathize. Looking as it addresses itself. Would I repent it? And Love sails airwaves, sullen into the intention, directing chi, losing parts, maintaining sanity, feeling quite different. The affair is imaginary. The meaning was inside: tacit vocality: to wonder if time is hurting, rarely stated, a small office, a soul spoke too much.
