I need to just say—art, love, rivers. Each frequency is hellish, and then you appear. The undercurrent, the stressor, trying to believe in change. Ruined lights. Trespass city. And feeling good. It was romantic to sense Love, threshed, wondering will God hold brains. After years of playing the dam, something gets through. I would ask of you a particular séance, a cryptic science, in believing one was glitter-born. I wonder if it still provokes a feeling—such cautious falcons. I would ask a question: How many years are sufficient? If never, then what are we dealing with? We see confusion, in desiring the child to be free, we feel ambivalent the child is doing it. I need to speak a fantasy. I need to say something. If us, would it die? If so, what are we chasing? Just be free! Nay, to adore like living, to sing to one’s soul. To see the best of what another brings forth. It means so little. It contradicts itself. It belongs where it vows to. Nay, in giving electricity, many avenues, to see it should carry infinity. Such identity in it, so astray at points, while it means essence. I should attest to adoring you, such a fable in time, while some comet is in the horizon. Some type of innocence, a rare trinket, responding by strategy. To need something God is resisting, to argue for justice, akin to Love is in error.
