The subconscious keeps talking. In reality, esoteria is about its business. So thin the line. So neat her flesh. So radiant her orientation. To possess behaviors, subtle measures, therapeutic identity.
Longing would become difficult. To know less than mercy. Eyes made of miracles. The fields are full of semblance—in one last leaping, many enclaves, one rudiment mistake.
In understanding it, noticing how to maneuver it, learning how to master it—seldom on point, somewhere afar, too precise to detour.
To enter through diligence; in begging existence. The storm of agility, faith bound, wondering if she frets over loyalties. So much to fruits.
Sitting in design, as it has been, the weight of being human. We would ignore humanness, enjoy our hundred days, walking out on faith alone.
Right in instruments. A throaty giggle, a weeping glow.
Those days became intimate. Those roots seem to impress upon everything.
A soul to her life. A machine mistaking accuracy.
The language against itself. The weeping made joy.
