The punctured
heart—those Wells, accustomed to waves: emancipation. Solving problems, outgrowing
problems, or both? So vatic—the sensory elements—pieces and particles—to find
my soul. The retrieval of lost decisions—the universal church—so connected in a
thought. It seems uncanny, strange even, everything we try might hurt. The geographic
energy—those flames in clouds, sweet, theological paleontology; such a fool to
wait, it was wrong the essence, the pangs have become normality. The bishops
represent solemn appetites, a grave further into immortality, so cursed—it seems
like normality. At Eucharist—once again, it’s been some years; emotional impacts,
draining impurities, feathered for flight; the pain of roses, the jamesia in
tone, torn for excitement. It moves from the metaphysical to physicality to the
existential. Precious soul touching, inner resurrection, so bothered sometimes.
To feel regurgitated. To feel recycled. Pausing too long to become unnoticed. Depending
on silence. Hovering in shadows. Watching the Liberator. The country to gut—the
heresy to mind, the apostolic testing. If to locate the Protestant principle,
those motivated, at a woman in his atmosphere. The valley on a rabbit’s trail—lions
waiting, the sphinx has come out of the alley. The dead dancing—it’s in Christ—the
dead is living! Sure ecclesiology, the first preface, along the island brains.
