I never, as to utter it, knew security. Maybe heart motion, furtive introspection. Each soul seems to make it as best as permitted. Activity is motion. Movement is conducive to joys. (Is happiness a static property? If so, it’s implausible. If not, as a visitor, we ask it to return soon.) Are moods indicative of all animals? Most would say: “Absolutely!” Some things should require all of a given soul; some things should belong to feathers, lightheartedness. If to feel inclined, needing what’s left of time, all should be evident; if gliding upon skates, just passing through, not much is expected. A general belief, part aphorism, part understanding. Such is innocent guile, to withhold passions; radicalized eternity, remembering mystery, exercising sight, part redeemed, as we assert; those sable eyes, sabretooth antiquity, arcane arts—one first missive. Didn’t need much, vibrations between souls, eclectic beliefs, kept silent, still wondering what it all means—those with gusto, satchels filled with roses, daysprings filled with hopes. Knowing inside—we give what we can, too much more is upsetting—the claims we make for love. If knowing self—those darkened times, dispelling doubts, doing much to endure—prurient upon a dance, cleaving to a given soul, mesmerized by an abstract metaphor.
