It behooves a soul to see—to inhale nature … for one rubescent, sorrowed, excitingly devastating. You seeped in; a desperate jeering. I imagine false feelings, albeit, so intense, an omen in some regions. In all of my flaws, you became an emerald. With nothing to include, prose bewailing attraction, intelligence betrayed, logic most insufferable. I debate epiphanies. A dear secret: self will find a way to deceive itself, embarrassment becomes legendary. I never had a right to adore. It feels like the jaw of life; most call it bull-crap. Sanctity requires global participation. I find souls are weakened by need. I’ve a plan to garner 10 consecutive wishes; indeed, a nutty professor, such loving kindness, to picture a human soul. As for eyes: nothing to contend with, cherished preference, too many diehard concerns, too many deficits. We age tenderly, pulled by romance, desperate for security, in days filled with uncertainty. Each chase offers wilderness. And what is an author searching to enjoy—capacity at its zenith, obviously—hoping for dreaming, one final excursion. I was rethinking ripeness, each accidental seduction, just for some insecure place inside, damn those damages. Such rubric passions, such hampering reality, often, we meet souls sharing rain—eager to tell their story, confused by exasperation of self, celebrated for seasons.
