Being is of self a chase. We contend against worries, moving in sort of a daze. I’m reluctant to address it: affection is pivotal desire. We refute one element in time, confused by what we’ve cleaved to: excellent promise, irresistible internality. I was with want to possess some talent, something charming, still a hope, a wish, for in all assertion, poetry is an isolated algorithm. One
presumes everyone is moved by it, not so. Nevertheless, words probe us. One might adore a given genre, contending against worries, finding solace in literature of some nature. Life is connected to itself and others through memories, a popular theory. Memory is alike to immortality. Indeed, when speaking on living forever, we might desire something more emphatic, more overt. In any respects,
mind is a link to being passed down from one to the next generation. Nothing of a discovery. We’ve lived it. We’ve thus experienced it. Issues remain, nonetheless, breakthroughs have been made. Each person is Yahtzee. Each building is undone for construction. Eyes are on each edifice. To have loved is to have felt life in passing; we desire what has been lost, it becomes mourning. In
soaring in one’s career, one will retire. Here is different. One can join the Board. One might get unsaid Love back. It may flow differently. I’ll address moods in closing. They seem important in determining temperament. Moods seem random, however, often, they can be traced. Indeed! Something unphysical is at play: what is intuition: unphysical knowingness?
