Some prose requires a glass of wine. I hope this is not now the case. If so, it falls upon the writer. Souls must understand what’s written, chasing memories in self. I no longer agree with myself, those islands I pursue. It seems to hurt—with each missing part. Many times, searching for wholeness—of dynasty, package, reality—tasting thunder, or welkin lightning, feeling a stranger through mutual intensity, the wilderness of emotion. It might require a glass, sort of early though … the rules we follow to evade awkwardness. The shadow of my ghosts; the forests in chi eyes. Or seeing pieces of a human—to put them together—to then try to define the wholeness of the package. Let spirit translate itself. Let riddles unveil themselves. Let two meet and fall deeper into treasuries. I hope this is now the case. Breathing, as it were—trekking miles to the city gates. Minds are chafe with trying to decode happiness. To give existence to reap joys, listening to self, as a laugh erupts; such niceties, such cordial sunshine, to walk away—looking back. I was wrong to hamper that. Life is challenging. If to find joy, enjoy joy. I would save self from parting ways. Neither true nor false: the motivating nugget: what defines it? It seems unfair to deny souls the duration. It just happens often. The wilderness is the journey.
