Those feelings are valid, the random emotions. It was hellish to need us. It was greed to fantasize life. You appear in a daydream, sassy and honest. So mystique, so much wine. I wonder if boredom is an issue, if the existential is your riddle. Such instincts, to fret and push forward, like part asleep, until angelic wokeness. The last pangs, brains aching, such a portrait, trying to laugh off a migraine.
I picture a position; with us the winning is industry. (Must be frank, always a style in mine, all in those feelings, addicted to sentiments, so close, and partner knows for weaknesses.) I see many
moments, sewing hearts, magnet psyches, cursed to adore inconsistencies. (I think love is consumption, the well-beloved in there in brains, swimming through hearts, some sick ass connection; to appear in a second, sudden somberness, to need something illogical.) And souls writhe the art is suffering, the glory is a smile, like negotiating with an underkeeper. The Ghost
bearing witness, gripping my ribs, leaning forward, vomit upchucking. Alike to a fast pace, semi-filled, a sudden excellence, to ask for love, living too quickly. Looking at eyes, having thoughts,
trying to become the best self, if to impress something partway in; it seems so simple: emotions are so random. I envision a glass half full, a need inside, wrestling freedoms, accused in winds, thrust into condition. It’s unclear those ways—mind concentration, to need affection, to hold a heart for ransom, to take emotions for hostage, just in case—such a fret over desperation.
