asphalt is suffering from inflexibility. soil means life, growth. i pondered aesthetic, days doodling arts. those elegant graces, years of literature, to impassion resistance, edging into glamour, one has died by solace. plucking strings. such esthetic slumber, length of antiquity. those satchel eyes, a soul to its exultation. and it seems improbable, source of weariness, to try to rest gently.
Ambience of purple. Fraught by grays. Life thwarted by instincts. Those with longevity, to have kept each wave, to have surfed troublesome seas. Rain pelting asphalt. With art convoluting activity, accustomed to a type of kettledrum. Palm to palm. Close to rapture. Cosmic undulation. I pondered aesthetic, endless essence, pensive graces. The discomforts of humanity,
awkwardness, such a precious process. Zest becomes contemplative—sweet enthusiasm. Oh, hectic of souls, picturing sunrise, moments mesmerized by dreams. Not what we will, more of what wills itself. A search for kismet. A need for naturality. By zeal it lives, giving reason to persist, whereby, one uttered: “I have finally lived.” So, tender by flesh; so intricate in character;
pulling, tugging, making delight, agitating sentiments. Sheer secernment, colored by passions. I pondered aesthetic, musing upon features, unable to break seriousness.
