Rather than question how much a reader can read, how many words can exist in a single sitting?
We’re going to do a sculptured version of underpinnings from the 19th century. To do this we will look at the critique embedded in the resourceful alignment from commonality and aging dimensions. The scope of what is seen in the alchemist’s world is the byproduct of angular and bi polar dimensions. Each half of a stigma is repetitive without its consent and then we have the “correct” notion of stigma at the base of relations. To a finality, a whimsical squaring off of redeeming assuredness complicates the order of fanatical thinking.
He won’t belong, for he belongs.
The majestic potion of loyalty emanating from the corpus mouth is instinctual as it’s order fades.
Here we have another lesson: Ricochet irony from his lesser mouth quakes. Now we define the he.
I was walking when I ascribed a guilt free modus to the paramount next step. Only were those who got it in glam. Destitute fiction as madness. Revolted anxiety. Purse to hand to mouth.
And one learns of denial by being strung up on a bed of flustered flowers.
Perhaps origin of anything is the flight of it, leaves one not afraid. But that’s the mule of the century. Why critique at all? Human ontology stretches further from the basics. Seminal advantages reach back into periods where acclimations had made aloof of avarice and paradox. Some others of mention might be pointless to receive but life is just like walking into a stranger’s library full of things.
Can remarks by politicians scare us into deepened introversion by subtle intoxication? Are lives really out on out? Lucid as humanity may be, I see no art in it. Just ingrained tutors that massage the hurt in more. They’re happy delightful folks, the you and I. With cars and cynicism.
My basis may not be to judge but if grief doesn’t end quick, I’m telling mom. In our happy moments, living life is like retraining a bicyclist how to ride curves for the anti marathon. Now, we may not be in the 19th century as a psycho present focus but for those literary terms, it was necessary for me to stretch out what could happen any era of this side paranormal. Sign a contract and remember “life is fast, life is laughs”. First, if you have to have to handle a suitcase, mount the handle between your teeth.
Then, the influx of commonality which is less so steep is courageous enough…its always been said that life throws us our less poetic moments back to us and makes us laugh at ourselves. Will we continue to let it throw from the bounds?
In tomorrow’s gestation of common sickness, in the hamper of aid crawls the living revolution. Let’s tolerate victimless mortality for a bit more. We can always walk somewhere else.
I knew I ran it far and near passed the limitations. Here in weathered rooms embodying all that is, sacrificed for alleged intention. Out, rattled off. Those scathing inner permeations, confined in their holy annexation. Interlude by no private fecundity, squashed from the door lords of the plight brigade.
The noise inside says come outside.
We were here once, that is what is tagged on the box car.
A trail of memory undead for a decorative musing or a skeptic.
But then we left the courtyard
And headed West. The island encampment meant we could spend revolving episodes of time in our longing.
But would we flee from the ironing, perhaps not.
But we’d make it our own, call ourselves probable fools.
Where would we go?
Only away, and not back.
This question, this particular takes us to the redirection of what life is itself. No other personal fiction should replace such a dishonest faction. The critters linger and their presence is itself one big isolation tank. Truly what we want to see, we don’t. But as for the exacting of a conversion, and this I get if I don’t get it at all. Hungry, tempted to let go.
The way out will be through burden. Time slips away, a fresh candle. Poetry diminish. Song for no apology. Can’t quit. Love’s got it right. The angles of this missing piece, I can look it over a thousand times in memory. So critical. Like lost hummingbird. Overjoyed, false set of teeth.
Bad resurrection. Pulse of communion. Take me seriously please. These are things I must discover. At the bottom of a fresh pond. A probability.
Who says let it go, without uttering my defense for the parameters of being riddled by…few shakes, so true.
Guess embracing it and then turning away.
I have the right to choose how to deal with child.
The excuse is mild.
Poured from a thick cup, so bold.
Crystal encryption, melted sorrow.
Am I insane? Did I go insane?
I wont let you answer that, I need to carry this burden.
Strikes me again, aging.
Leave it alone.
Or it wont age at all. New face, new you.
Redirection. Time must be spent for it. Also, could use a bit of help feeling less worrisome. That wouldn’t be hard to do. After the throat of mesmerized fatality, drinking in luxury. Testament keeps burning. So slow, again.
Forest fire, careful with this
Come closer to let in feelings
Nourishment for baby’s eyes
Only candy, this is the first step.
Growing old, and savored as can be. The irony in being happy. So are we the last to go?
Just as small weeks go
The ice may melt but I’ve got a word to share with you.
Maybe we’ll be happy but will we ever know?
I can’t complain of capital shock
The irony is that its worse than I thought
You and I are very little few handshakes of post itinerary after the gulf
Slow tremors make house shake
Dismal but not inappropriate
Simple but not disproportionate
Idle as we were