So far into future habits; so, laced inside; to picture a forming curse: What is awkwardness? The mind might register a feeling, to act as if, despite factuality. Something prenatal—thus, primitive, we never looked hard enough. A lifelong battle, to endure forever, at least until the grave, so justified, so noble, so affective. I was thinking about you, asking for permission, truly fretting an addictive woman; to lie is wrong, make it sincere, something you might overlook. And loving life is mythical, more to tolerate patterns, asking to exist in certain castles—sentient quarters. I must begin a search, despite interference, days are too short for simmering. And Love was younger, so decent, to become wilder, such precision, such active demure. Indeed, so offensive, uncured legends, to ask permission. Never enough! Never even! One is just at it. I wonder if battling at it fills unevenness? To have appeared at it; to have struck a nerve; with life seeming what it entails; to give days over to one pursuit. Either to strike a curse, or to adore, with nothing for one in deep debate. Going left. Going right. Such living paradox. If to argue it out. To walk away with a grudge. Constructing an edifice. Sure to insist upon nothingness—angered the city is silent. Such a rushing weather. To insist eternally. To know for affect. Disgusted one keeps living. We never know our names, familial power, so many preparing for devastation.
