I thought about you, like a man humbled—those terrific prisms, tiger life. The payment is a soul, wondering how much pain is in there. It generates energy; in finding a spirit—through mind channels. I shouldn’t say it. I get penalized for speaking of esoteria. It was hell. I try to understand lights, even darkness, everything is cloudy. Such nebulosity. I can’t this wave. And I must this cave. We never know when it will strike: cadence inside, to dissipate, and suddenly—hell breaks silence. Or sitting still, lost in a dazing, and suddenly—a compelling name repeats itself. I’m far from normal, likewise, far from off. Some mysteries are deliberate. I don’t claim love. I do imagine this circumstance is what poets were undergoing. The fair maiden; a gifted modesty; a rabid lover; so close to never finalizing infinity. Someone has hell to greet; someone has answers to give. Such a mantic device—certainty for living in anguish, one forced to manipulate his mind. I can’t picture it: everything she desired, to have it, and still churn the poets. Psychic wavelengths: to wonder if it saw fruition, an internal/external fruitage. A man would be sick. In a situation—where nothing matters, agaze by wonder, addicted to nightmarish skies. Such immortality—sanctified in craniums, clearly defined by noetic science.
