Looking back, it shouldn’t be what it is; to flower aside a xyst. (It comes when times are imperceptible: deadly petals, venomous grass.) It remains a public secret; radicalization; and all things come to perish. With time, we sense vulnerability, we nestle emotionality. In believing in essence, one disputes elements, as casual creatures, at vivid velocity. We employ hertz for many reasons—one will see intentionality. They gave a path, sensational titillations, to plant seeds by a spark. Some agree. Some disagree. This is life. We ask for balance, even acceptance. Somehow, she uprooted cosmic chi. Many are just as powerful. The equation remains inquisitive, we’ve approached feelings with mathematics, garnering a great deal, seeking excellence of humanity: a common ground is imperfection, the drift of emotions. And we ponder at a gift, to partake of sky wealth, at gut phones, pianoing firebirds. On occasion, to get lost, it’s excruciating, so back to math, fiending for earthly fruits. What has it become? Such a trivia question. Moving like centipedes, fretting the serpentine, deep sanguine moments. She was amazed to read it, such a dedicated soul, thwarted by reality, fighting growth, too intense for public artistry. The miracle of a last mile; to see sunlight, to know one fought a decent fight. One kiss, brought eye-to-eye, an ultimate entrance. So many waves, souls knowing life, remaining participants of breath.
