I’m unfocused, so distinctively. I reevaluated a situation; I keep hearing my soul. It’s amazing what one will give you to carry. I fathom why holiness is trekking a sword. And I sense a need to take action. Love was reading, an audience’s prerogative. To feel temperament; to enter the storehouse, to realize, one must heal self. And a gentleman tries harder; he plays pretend well; he doesn’t plague too many facts: he’s pleasant. He churns for that. Some truths are velvet: a man knows to remain balanced. I wasn’t a gentleman. To inherit chaos; regardless of deeds. I wonder about strongholds. I, too, debate the fear of change. Classical conundrums.
II
I stand at an impasse. I stand near a precipice. Something to it is eerie. And Love has repeated her agenda. Classical angst; facing it. It’s beyond; it’s what it looks like. And Love is spirit-sullen, reading at moments, writing from time to time. So great the pseudepigrapha; so necessarily against rudiments. We’ve surpassed anthropology—picking up mind-artifacts. I’ve a feeling this is what souls mistaken for love. As if, one can define love. And many were grandfathered in—a different type of entitlement. I sat in dialogue—years ago. I know it’s texture, tactile laugh-prints. I sealed parts of me. I adopted unique universals. I sense, I haven’t a complete understanding. Behavior seems by instinct and held hostage by awareness.
