The goal seems charged by the concept of happiness. To have goodness. To dream of flying. The greatest victory—left determined by souls. Raking spirits. Churning chi. The clock just ticks. Tender happiness. It seems cyclical. It seems to be right there at points; one too low to grasp it.
One lost in beauty, another in intellect, another in yoga. The world seeming principled, somewhat following a form of religiosity. To each is their ritual. How to stop the rain when it’s pouring? To mend a broken mirror? One might share in a circle; each has a rare talent; it seems
highs are sought—balance of the kingdom. The sun was shining for him—he knew it would be hellish, (The come down), he kept warding it off, it finally kicked in. He would share a message with spirit, he would understand offshoots, a feeling to desire living. For the good times, an allegiance to arts, if to give a human love—to imbue said human with glory. To have indicted the
love—to sense a mixed perception—some offshoots remain to chance (the core purpose, only the artist knows.) It brings an insight; the reason souls tie the knot: yoked equally. Indeed, many more reasons. The ideal is equality of powers; quite possibly, pure love. The goal seems charged by the concept of happiness. To have goodness. The dream of flying.
