Gazing at images. Dingoes in the deep desert. Soul-hounds. Just built that way. When it is, flowers feel intimate. Made to feel emotional—one to move spirits. Is it the 710s? The 405n? I was off the 10w. To sit in de ja vu. To marvel at the Spanish culture. Such make beauty. They groom poets. Not much a difference to say, poetess. Falling into oceans. Paying penance, on verge to trespass—dear darkness, where do you arise? Valued holiness; to deny it, to love its contagion. Religiosity was commandeered. Humanists soared. To touch that way. Life is tactile. The abstract is metaphysical. It comes a time—to chill out, to relax with closeness, to chance weather, to sip teas. A time to unwind, to breathe in, to breathe out. Over a remix, or revising one chapter, if to set affairs in motion—off the 110s, moving with feelers, wondering why life maroons at moments. Prone to savannahs; metaphoric isolation. When it’s said for done, when one peruses the tome, culling certain thoughts, know it was wabi-sabi. A search left part complete; know I never could fathom it, its source, never could settle upon presumption, wrestled with probability. Another road, a shorter highway, a narrow path—lots of moving and pausing; one passage, making moments, cherishing the organic—must try at all times, never another sizzle, miracle minded, realizing—it was never so serious.
