In a simplistic world, it wouldn’t be what it is. But it isn’t simplistic. It’s complex combinations, depth distortion. Each is searching for meaning. Each is disagreeing with existence. The beauty of family, the wealth of essence, and we’d hope through times the treasury of serenity. By tussling through elements, certain thickened skin, suddenly weakened; society as it awakens, an office filled with dreams, an almond scenting—most terrific fields of sugarcane. It makes for wonder. It’s alarming. It’s a glitch. And it was deliberate. Through an umbra, running back to mirrors, alert to something growing, something dissipating; a man to his thoughts, sore tired of searching out excellence—thrown into it, lost without the training. Life is cryptic, more so than direct, something driving souls. A lady is motion, gripping success, traipsing a tightrope. By fretting many feelings, communicating to pains, one desires to divest self of ghosts. It was unusual. To prick incessantly, craving another person’s distraction. And Love is pushing, a paragon of arts, reading life as it’s stippled. Such seems simplistic. It never is. It actually aches, churns, distresses interior workings. By an avalanche, sanding edges, making errors. Each combination is guarded by padlocks. Each dream is threatened by happenstance. With learning comes a curve, an inner series of doors, a mind-window, a compelling mirror—to have dreamt about reality, fraught by intuition, mind-stuff permeating existence; and to claim love is a great reality, a stage of ambitions, one of life’s feats.
