Aside a sycamore—down the road, amazed by rationality. Life keeps motion. Hearts keep wraiths, banshees, a feeling, it might ache. Love spoke about hibiscus; pain speaks of Virginia. I was excited, motivated, happenstance would become redundant. And Love seemed electric, fuel and fire, love, passion and hurting. If one knew the unspoken, one might go mad. Irish flowers, European syntax, hieroglyphic letters. If to say anything, if it would reach, noticing life is equally intense. It’s already tomorrow, those sharks are early, they’ve a sentiment against evenness. Years keep chasing. Living is made possible. And admiring you has been a debate. The reasons aren’t fixable. Some things matter, others don’t. It must be cultural. Such colorful absence, to adore in opposition, to have what’s loathed fall in love. I imagine it’s easy, taken for granted, presumed in all souls. A soul is listening. She has ears. She has eyes. If life isn’t part consumption, life becomes interior absence. It’s not a chase. It’s typical atmosphere. Why rush! Such a keepsake. So angered. To have become a shadow. Such image friction. Those maps to islands, certain disputation. Some type of touch. Some type of smile. Eyes holding dusk. Smoldering skies. Desert born promises. If I’d lie, if to keep agonies, one tender outburst.
