I’m curious when I feel it. I’m bland as I reproach it. To have a hunch—an inclination pressing. Intuition comes and it probes daylight. Night is nocturnal; rabid means fever; lows confuse arts. The reigns are upon skies, rain is pouring. I sense her eyes, a unique experience. If we knew perpetual joys, would it drive us mad? Out of suffering, aesthetics was born: I wonder how in depth her esthetics travel. It’s odd the way space closes in and makes a spark. Some part of us desires to be a kid; some part of existence refuses us that pleasure. To feel secure as spirits, instead of fretting the condition of the soul. The hunch has no foundation. It just appears, as does a thought, impressing into brain tissue. I hear its silence. I recall being too low to make the radar. Such radiance in a creature; accustomed to flights, often, regrets are short lived: back to arts, right? Many frown; sweet contradiction—values morph into patience. Plainly put, I go into thoughts, carrying some frequency, reluctant to give in to mere hunches. The battle for brains; by waxing in cautions, in turn, needing to have each hunch. (It amazes me how one can be a smart ass, trying to provoke tension, and find a place in our hearts.) An artist will speak about beauty. Radars stand high. So many have played that violin, gotten close, and vanished. I might need to hear something in particular, at a given moment. Coming to find, it was a fib. The artist is genuine in this sense, it only comes out when provoked. It must move. (I hope the heaviness subsides enough to enjoy a neat creation.) Beauty is in reflection, in a given mirror, in intellect.
