I never say it plainly. It befuddles me. And presence creates self-consciousness. If uncareful, it can hamper one’s psychic growth. (Shucks! It can cause aberrance.) Nevertheless, let us believe something positive is elevating into clouds. (Belief is anchor.) So, great in mysticism, such a
nameless name, thoughts upon magnificence. If one knew for a process; one might opt out of the frustration. (I see complexity in self. I dislike tactics, nevertheless, I wonder about the human.) Nothing too wild. Just evolving, I’d suppose. And over a cliff, upon a precipice, along an isle one glances, forming polemics. (This is the reason, I never lied on that note.) Sounds like I lied
elsewhere: I don’t know. Over blueberries, laughing in disguise, true wilderness, so close, one feels electric. Such freefalling looking at a rearview, as they say, in hindsight. I was with problems. I still see remnants. The complications given to newborns. And Love will never know the depth of
a fantasy. So fragile. So related. So illogical. The places a mind will go. Just for deepness; nothing of tactile pleasure, no future in it passed literature. I don’t know for others, but years mean aging. As days wane, weaving arts, something beautiful, if immortal. It was first for God, it drifted and became secular, it shifted again for love, mysticism, pain and arts.
