What keeps a slanted sentence ingesting auras; better about soaring into a river. The bleeding innocence, souls stood at attention. So much a raw portrait, palatial pains, such restored beliefs. I walked miles into milieus to get close to an image, amazed by the misery we cause self. If it hurt, it feels like living. To ache in storms, hearts warm, such existence meant for ridicule. I stand baffled. It never ceases to intrigue. With so much on brink of disappearing, life continues to bankrupt each existence. (The days are moody. The nights stipple stars, affect memories, a softness to draining out. It’s never without sentiment the racing beauty, feeling lethargic. Moments with an envisioning leaf. Seconds wiping an ebbing tear. Life is uncertain of itself, precarious in tone, a pregnant voice. I was thinking to myself concerning augmenting life. It’s been chilly, and I fret coldness—the gelid currents, just desiring has become a sensation, a feeling, if to search for more light, alone in promenade, mesmerized by subtle excellence, remaining distant, seeing aloofness. One might endure the sentiment, acting recklessly, if to experience titillation—mind proof, no such thing, something is overdue for an introduction. I seduce thoughts. I live part alienated, distant from my palms. I’m tired and satisfied, an uneasy position, while aging is soaring. Many desperate glue sticks, trying to adore each other, slanted like a sentence, affixed like first motion.
