We might mistake myriad loses. We shall try harder. What can we show you? Such to witness by hearts. What art requires! Soul of my spirit, song of my ache, history hearted,
listening to jazz. In parts; too sanctimonious, too neat. To be reckless, seemed like irony; to obey seemed like paradox. So great in measurement, sullen beauty, gallicas mid-
mornings—broken with hopes, language ghosts, status zero, a soul is ruled by empty pots. With passivity comes acceptance, which fosters a certain death—in either
direction, there’ll be deaths. Loving was innocence, why so angry at others, their living animation; it doesn’t matter—length of days, phoenix weather, fireballs with few
horizons. It was meant to be trespassed—what means privacy? So, a soul carves bark, nurtures dissonance, as it’s intended. This is normal. Any net would agree. One will pass
a weeping bench, eat a bag of apricots, longing into what’s absent; it never mattered; it was meant to be as it is; so, why a touch of discontent? It’s meant to be
eternal. At least to a grave. Why else would it be? Loving was innocent. It had depth. It grew. It became a labyrinth. A long maze. It has to be normal. It has to be ordained. Such
spirits, mind-gregarious, time keeps giving way to reality. To have mystery—dwelling in armor, knitting at countenance, a rabidness to it, this is what they seek. A certain bent; why should it be straight plaid.
