From deeper seas: I was born to master it. A long time coming: so many bridges. Alike to unreachable gates, immortal swords. And by love, we mean healing. I felt unborn those years, cleaving to the profane—such unholy creatures: it becomes a war, striving for the holy. The artist spoke it clearly: “It’s a feeling.” I entered by measures. I swore it by the Ghost. Having difficulty with clarification—outside of belief. Such nomadic spirits—sudden joys, settling back into essence. Full pledged darkness, upon a spark, awesome lights. Aside musical rites, slave of the rhythm. Pure ecstasy; down near caves, reading inscriptions, feeling a certain vibration—if to live, if to perish. Torn elastic; framed by it, still trying to master it: an illicit activity. Primitive souls, sabretooth twins, kneeling into ocean sand. Seemingly, seeking skies, emotional comforts, and life appears harsher than first thought. Like a breeze at times. Like numen at moments. Pneumatic concerns; at a fixation, transfixed, unto grave and resurrection. Utter dynamics; such modern-day primitive creatures—to see as it unfolds, a moment between comfort and immediate displeasure. Preparing by choice, feeling phlegmatic, disputing necessity versus preference. Souls of the nocturn, ancient presence, at Love with a diamond ring. In hearing, “Yes,” no other wildness.
