Those with fluidity, critical impasse. Such a jewel, so great is scrutiny. (They see us coming.) Deprived of ego, such surrendering. Days are explosive without her, seeming normal with her. Such a feeling. I walk, learning to skip—to flit and fly; eyes twinkling, body language speaking, not all will smile. By participation between strangers; given to churning, like prepared to under-soar, in soaring, one anniversary. Life has secrets—no one ever the same. One long party, kisses and joys, thrown into heaven, a soul igniting engine(s). Those numen eyes, an indecent proposal, such a rapturous blessing. It was meant to become impossible, if not, it was meant to become insufferable. What is a gift without turmoil? Soft heat. Sweaty palms. Nape ferocity. So mis-analyzed, so cursed. It tends to be something mysterious, intimate misery. Prose requires so many elements: some days up on high, some days like extracting molars. To have adored in shadow, to look to it for drive, many more restless moments. Amazed by respects. To wither, to fall into a slump, to believe—it’s never enough, it keeps coming, building upon itself. If to rain on souls, if a flood of magnitude, such vicissitudes; tears feel intense, ever a desire, making for resistance—painstaking avalanches, unbearable tornadoes, if to awaken faced by a koan.
