I know for not knowing. So casual the chaos. To sing to disruption, to unknit each seam, as to awaken to a similar quilt. It gets that way. Soundness challenged. Quickness averted. Devastation; showering in deepness, never wished to claim it, but a hint of despair. It seems ridiculous to say it, laughter unto a falling tear. And souls are at battle, guiding feelings, seized by emotion, unthawed, needled by reverberation. It comes across like a gift, some excruciating talent. It speaks to trials, mind tunnels, somber triumphs—
If to measure goodness, true, outstanding charity, condition besprinkles atmosphere. Idleness is vamping itself. It always felt precious—an art in wrangling, so philosophic, not nearly an entire solution; such zeal to adore, to believe, souls to cherish—such zest, trailing a xyst, or living Zen, facing intimate core self; in truth, a side of personhood, deeper than human reach, capacity is mythical, plaguing, searching souls, present like a noticeable weight—
Nevertheless, a dear friend, a loving sibling, a treasured spouse, with all those valleys, all those crevices, such activity, with perfection for others, with a flicker for spaces, so clear at seconds, carrying a symphony—
Such a mirror dance, fraught by perception, affixed to life-giving illusion and adoring when ill is easy seeking a solution to a seemingly terminal disposition endlessness of glee to notice self, smiling, withered, measuring expression, only enough—
