War wounds, sky breakage. To work like oxen, rereading Love, nauseated, focused on condition. Something like forces, I suppose. One bet on weather, palming a tsunami, filled with terrible angst, one pill, they say. Needing advice. Fretting the grandness of loses. A little apologetic about it all. It has to be that way for sanity’s sake.
To get it right, a tremendous feat—it’s what we’re fighting for, excellence, at all costs.
Such pedigree. Seven baguettes. Righteous flame.
Can’t enjoy for rich worry—skating shivers, dark chills, and life is first beautified. It reasons why disillusion churns a soul. Such upheaval! Wealthy resistance. Early graves. I position to believe life is different for differing ranks.
Life keeps souls reaching. And Love is an inscrutable property. It makes little sense. It engulfs souls. It feels with passion.
War wounds, sky breakage. Such a journey for sojourners of chaos. Life makes for courage, adrift in mountains, trying to touch artifacts, one gift!
In it to win, stumbling at pit holes, extracting shrapnel from flesh.
