I’ve been in a zone. To wonder of cries, as in flesh, remaining unvocal. To have pieces baptized. In making body follow mind. In it all, sin of my art, ache of my soul. With everything we adored, amazed how pledges dissipate. Today is for romance. So blessed if comfort is still found. To say something rosy, aesthetic borne, science in attraction: the two are one. Teeming with passions, alike to breathing, ghosts, phantoms, and wraiths. Something holy is taking place; something reified. (Can’t imagine how one gives another life; can’t picture I fully fathom.) Been with beliefs, a far cry into faith, to have mercy given: beloved of instincts, armor of a dear spirit. It goes deeper—so messianic, temple of one’s mind, a passing glance, a ghostly smile—rhythm of ages. With working terribly, with protecting concepts, with children laughing, part oblivious to adult life. I’ve been in a zone. Love is mythological, in every soul. Each provision to keep amour. Such a zone. Trying harder. The reigns of humanity; the curses of the blessed. To sigh; to feel loving was challenging. Rolling dice. A friend in soulprint. A mind’s voiceprint. To have understood reality. I spin in a web, nothing graphic, just existence. I adore what I feel, losing certain intensity. I give a blessing to windfalls, to naivety, to rebounding, to cherishing God’s inheritance. In all the giving, such tender reciprocation; zone of my zone, inner gut-phone, days of my life.
