So elusive, so necessitated, each word is a secret. Trying to correlate both canvases. Too much to determine. Life is lexiconic, and codified. I can’t get closer to diction. Near to light, unveiling kilowatts, trying to become circuits, very difficult, if possible. Such simplistic torches; making existence neat, if possible. I venture to believe you have eloquent, hermetic prose, so much living. I set words forward. They come back. Something is, and something isn’t; such wakeful creatures. Sentences freefall searching for buoyancy. They arrive with all to give; interpretation could be silent. Sunshine is witness. Stars are squinting. Even to get close requires shifts of reality, perception. I noticed inscrutability. Such spoken intensity: a requirement. Human words. Spirit words. Such in passing—to have felt what was insinuated, through interpretation, words rely on what one brings: life of its curse, soul of its healing. I see chasm. I see wholeness. In trying to fly, each will flit, analyzing predicates, in a land avoiding adjectives. So fluffy as made intentional; so cryptic as plainly insisted. Upon an adverb; lovely transgression. To get close to meaning, in a realm of prose, those with genius, those with word science. Through portals and prisms; certain excellent distance; blessed to have drawn a feeling.
