Multivalent sunshine. It was neat, I supposed; to know tenderness, to muse at roses. So damned, so curious, bled of parts, pleading integrity. A soul has capacity to adore by a glance; be it chimerical, be it natural, be it desperation. I suspect upon an introduction, so indicative of humans,
too much to realize, so indebted to miracles. I’d seduce my mind, accursed like dragons are, such a gila instinct; and longing became instinctual, many suppositions on its guidance, pursuing in
dreams, ironically, treading distance. And Love was watching, filled with strategy, seeing something aching, such ornaments, such oracles, to have imagined some strange essence. I was smitten, I’d suppose. Alike to meeting charisma; those flickers, spirit flitting, hertz and hearts. So
much phantasm, if to assume life, it becomes saddening. A different soul approaches its mirror, seeing as we do, a glint, such ruminating science. Still fretting furiously. Still with sacred silence.
And thinking about Siena—mesmerized by mystic flurry, asking myself to keep reality—too many fragments to sort through; to perish in one’s living, to see femininity, to wonder what magic one works with—so perpendicular. With memories surfing, traveling through darkness, so intimate with melancholy, swatting at deserts, framed in wishes, affected by prayer.
