None of this makes sense. Abandoned to naturality. To sit shyly; to ache in silence; to make life worthy of its claims.
I hear when you say, “No!” I feel with a tinge of acceptance. Point in case is this, in crowded quarters—one feels like the lone wolf.
Months morph into years. Years are left to castling. I imagine not saying much, maybe a jot here and there.
In all things, strength seems important—to move pawns—up a steep hill, to hear an arcane instinct. I was negotiating inside, more like letting go, an instant later, filled with essence, vibration, a thump, cadence, something hard to explain.
I would conjure up some desperate plea, wondering what life feels like, as uncaged swans—soaring, hydroplaning, so thetic by chance, emotion seeming like conduits.
I have said nothing, naught exactly, feeling it—a sign that it feels itself. Curious penchants, a soul to penance, to have flogged the philosophic.
Mind physics: they thought it out: it seems to make its debut, such presentation, to have communion—unable to commute outside of divine humanism.
I have loved in passing, wiggling an anchor, understanding more in this phase of life. Without ever its reach, rebuking physicality, no longer pictureless.
