The desert is a file, jotted by a soul, dictated by a
second party, dispensed by a monster. Another, seen as innocent, when I never
tried to camouflage ingredients. Just culpable!
A
soul will fight against himself, trying to gain approval: one needs exhaustion;
another needs control. It might seem foreign, so unhealthy, so charged with
invisibility.
The desert
file—made through assistance, I lose what’s meant to be forfeited.
A man
is stern, removed from self, acutely searching for equality: Are souls equipped
to endorse equality?
One will until it destroys. I may have pointed that
out. I am now without unsaid friendship.
Another
has a snakebite. She is personable with said snakebite. No one is made aware
until bitten.
We might
discuss ethics, morals, and such; we might circumvent those maxims, justified,
and always with a laudable excuse. A soul has sawdust in the atmosphere; he
speaks too swiftly; no one is concerned with assertions, they just linger.
The desert
is a file. One prefers listen to files. The voice is just to solidify what’s
found in the file.
I will
watch the farm. I will sale the farm. I will not undo the file. The file, its
contents, are always preferred.
