What are these….simple moments, that seem to cradle wonder for all there is? What are the precious? Everything seems to have a name. Yet, when you pass these names the lens of the observer trivializes the order of the world. At first it would seem that dream is outspoken and then in life….life is dream. Do the intuitive know anything?
such a charm it would be to have these memories stolen from us. Because, it is not dangerous to know the keeper of the said and unsaid. Maybe a furnishing of this or that and beyond the beginnings or ends. The sigh at the end of any sentence is what makes it real. What a difference it may make. A limb and then another. What is obvious? What breath may insult the mannerism?
if the poignancy of flesh cannot combat the willful, the truth will not be. So his true side seems to bend. And in the obvious way. He hears gravel crunching. He knows it time to leave. Exit silver mouth. The interesting plight of the self disclosed maniac is not told much. By the idea in reference to self and the procession of anonymity, mutation will be not important. What are the moments. That seem likely but really your interest in them and its subtle bereavement makes it not so likely. In company, most children can knock down objects. The variety. Bereavement. Well, you had your fun with that. Now walk off and be well.