I wait to write,/ for the where could i perfect embody./ i wait for that perfectness.
Incessantly blind to the truth of amaranthine perfectness. Pulling cover over the uncomfortableness that each moment, as it is, is in its perfectness, as events, love, energy and life correlate to form each ecstatic emotion. And the capturing, preserving of this moment is what I find agony in, and what I should be finding agony in.
I wait to write. Meanwhile, ships rip the seas in which the dolphins swap their fins. Crazy ants go walkabout in the sub-Saharan Autralian leaves. Suns revolve, planets emerge, some guy on a wheelchair says that time expands.
We, lost mortals, playing with grains of sand on the cuckoo beach, whilst the ocean of us and I lies ahead, and we refuse to see.
Elephantian dreams shattering like expectations in realosphere. Where do you put your belief in? A question so radical in this world of the present, time.
I await to fly.
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