Whatever it is, I’ve said much on it. I remember consciousness. I engaged water.
Faceless dreams. Artistic nausea. Rose stems as twine. Symbolic dogwood.
I was stressed out—unspoiled—painting different violins, hushed, building indifference—it wouldn’t stick, oceans in living rooms, filthy rugs, face to earth.
Like Europe, finer appetites: ballet as prose, a story, if it would hurt, it would be fantastic.
The central conflict; pace of a poem.
Some feelings haven’t blueprints; economical emotions, treasured chaos.
It seems pathetic, some languid tragedy, in explanation, like art, we face redundancy.
Innovation we seek. Skies opening, we demand. Or so simple, we missed it neatly.
In agreements—at an apologue, to notice texture, tenor, sacrifice of person—those waves, some type of seas, plums, oranges, cherries.
