The Care and Feeding of an American Messiah.

Write what you know, they say.

Souls marked with righteous regret are walking down the street. Everyone is at least 30 years older than me. I walk to the coffee shop alone through the crowded residential area. There are usually not this many people on the street. It must be because the sun is out.

This winter was long and cold this year. This was unusual as the last few years have been legitimate examples of global warming. I hadn’t seen snow like that since I was a child. Crises were created and life was averted for another year so that I could write something meaningful. There is a chance that I did.

I recall a mania that occurred about a year ago that lead to long rambling notes regarding eternity and the colors of life, which destroyed my psyche for the rest of the year making me fritter away my time wishing that grandeur were true. The colors have fallen back to their resting positions and I cannot any longer see God. This is very well and good, as when I was close to God I was driven insane by knowing some kind of truth. My mind was not capable of comprehending what I saw. The doctors that took care of me called it bipolar mania, which is apparently an addictive drug.

The only problem with seeing the light so brightly in my mania is that I lose the ability to function in the real world. I am being abducted by aliens and walking around Syria with a light saber saving the world and ending wars, bi-locating to do the work of great spirits of white magick and writing books and plays regarding my adventure, but I am not making sense to the people who can see me and care about me nor actually recording the notes of my adventure. This is a valuable source of creativity, as it serves as cannon fodder to fill the notebooks and documents throughout the rest of the year.

There is meaning to life. There is a beautiful cause brought by reasonable ones. The British insomniacs are on the same page as me. There is no reason to feed blame. There are only we, those wicked souls of prediction and the land of the Sumers, those who lack the will to change and run away. We are people who find fury within graceful lines. I will find the truth, of course, like my ancestors that came to the new world hoping to build a better life. They want things only dreamed of and brought the silence of Northern Russia with them.

Who am I, really? Where do these parts go? Where is the one that works to get to that spot on the horizon that watches and waits for the passing of time? Where are the fearsome kinds of beast that take the manic witches and drag us to the hellish spaces of darkness that come with the blindness of mania? Who are the other people like me? Where are these strange memories from? Where do they fit?

These mistakes must have a hidden beauty. When they speak to me I am hidden. When they move I leave without them. Those who you fall asleep thinking about have given you either joy or pain, and in some case both. It is my mistake that makes these manic cries for someone to love me back. All I can do is love someone who also loves me. There is a nice space there, and it keeps a madman warm, even if I still smoke.

There is no careless effort afforded to me here. There is only a need for a massive lifestyle change. This one has been happening slowly for the last two years.

There is no hope to change my past. There is no wandering that can bleed these wounds and fear the change of lust in the ego. Bothersome, sacred matters are, while the righteous thoughts of faith and empirical space wraps the reader their white linen and calls out the in light shadows without their righteous fodder. We have no weather that bares my collar. There are members of the fighting stance that knead the brass as it drips from my shattered soul. I gave away everything that I could.

Gentle love shapes my mind. I cannot believe that these are the wide-open spaces that the divine wanted every day, between the faithful way and the shadows now. I cannot think that these divine gifts have wrapped me without leaving a trail. I must follow their ether and try to find the love and grace of the potential for tea in the afternoon. There is an old woman finally whole, with white wine and vinegar while the mighty fell.

the fear

This is what gives me the fear – a scalding note from a superior regarding the place that I want to receive as an important nuance. There are other things, but I regrettably cannot feel those right now, only the pure jealous knowing that nothing will relate with me like the chaotic failed potential. I cannot relate. That is okay, though – I am not meant to be like the rest. Finding this out, I cannot rejoice in the valor of accomplishment, not without knowing that I am only one sainted member of this team, not able to speak, but high on righteous indignation. All he can do is hate me.

Some time soon the pale veil of fog will encompass this valley, and the news will come that all I have tried to accomplish is not available to the righteous ones. I can concern myself with the resources found near the ghost of the Chinese bookstore that used to sit on the corner that that ailing old man now sells his drugs. They always invite me to the shadow, hoping that I can be another place for them to find a heartless badger, made for shadowed laughs and turbulent niceties. There is no point.

What are we doing here? Why should I try to be the potent mid-life rapture that envelops that piece of resistance deep in my drawl? I cannot be trusted. Only the shining light takes their spot. Without the rapturous lift to heaven, the stubborn must believe. The rose finds it’s hope and I cry. There is a weapon somewhere for me to fight through these details. It is deep within my cell memory of Catholic guilt. I cannot belong to any of the other veins. They are deep blue and have mystery. This one is purple and chokes.

Why I Want To Be An Insomniac.

"Heavy is the crown that leads the path to departed faiths," she said.
They were all very careful to take Mu's words lightly. She had a job here, but it was going in the wrong direction so she left. Mu has not been herself lately. Maybe it was that people were taking her words to seriously. Perhaps it was her Master's request. Six lives, getting better, and becoming a faith healed document to worldly powers, she could not be taken as a game of three card poker. At her Master's request, it was, she had given herself to being masculine for 6 lives.

watering

I am here to ask the written word of you. There is a place with the steaming thoughts that need their hope. They have their shapeless sworn places made from people carelessly strewn around the widening sky. The orange and pink shower causes the era litters stranded by graceful tomes to be ridden like a failed coma, since proven to be a faked stubborn woven light. Of course all this is not necessary to show that I care even a little bit about the talent or the need for a weapon to be written about.

There is probably a reason to find this. My head is giving me the lines of garbled nonsense, and I need to be found by the better thought and all I have is the righteous decline of weapons that need me to be here. There is no problem. There is a path for us here within the grand design. These weighted thoughts are beginning to find a hard line made for whites and the gracious term made for all the great thoughts that need all these white lines filled with grace and design made for radios and televisions laughing with these weapons made for watering the cans. This will work for a while, at least.

I very much decide that the grand people take their fighting way made from leaders with the highest letter means that he has water for the faithful ones that light their harmful spines with the letters that must bring the water to me for the last time. Still I have these white lights take me and the cursed path, the one that writes my nightly decision with the faithful symptoms needing me to light their path until I can find myself, finally and distinctly with the distractions in the gracious spines and need my water-borne idle sums that grant me severity. I have believable stones in my pocket.

We have to break here with I mention the task at hand. These silent waters make their still home the gracious place for me to find the silence at hand and her to make the water braid within the bridge that watches me from the winding road that leads here. The only sum that I have left is the portrait of myself made of cannabis, psychiatric mud and the shapes I am left with, behind which I hide. There they sit haphazardly, red and green triangles perched precariously on a door lying on its side.

I am behind the door, huddled with a stuffed animal. When there is no other world, I find the way behind the turbulent tone that keeps me here. I have to be sure that there is a way beyond the silent watching kind that keeps me mortal. Where are the shiny thoughts, and I have the lighter when the gracious tomes keeps me wandering with their whole lights, with final thoughts and tones, things that I cannot find without her. There are sheep at the bar. They are ordering silent rounds and finding whites to be sure. They cannot drink the lessons down, but they are fine; with us, they are sitting in pantaloons making fudge.

Chaos divides us, so make sure you bring the harps through. There is a climate within these walls. They do not speak like the others, and with their harmful ways they cause me a blind injustice. I cannot belong with the helping ones. I must destroy their hopeful word and I have become someone just enough to long for something great. That is what I will do. Is there a gracious blind man for me there? I longed but could not speak to him.

Floating discs, made of plastic, they burn through the streets made of carnal joy. They feel like a shine made of summer heat in the deathly cold of the winter, like a day of rain on your vacation to the desert. Still they find me with them. I cannot be careless like the others. I must run through this muck. This is a grave responsibility and it cannot be taken lightly. There is a story within these ramblings, but I gave it up with the right permissions and now it is hidden somewhere deep within a jagged confusing mess.

There is a troubling silence within the apes that sit and type in this world with deer in human streets. We can let them eat their grass in the field with a fence surrounded by apartment buildings and silent love songs.
There is a politic that watches them. There is a looming shadow. That is the name of Dan Albas. The main component of water-crest mass, a high elf in the weight. These are the Saharan ruins that lay with the spoken works of the grandest designs, made for those who could belong and the shipwrecked few who live so shallowly but without sin. There is only the watchful eye of the movie telephone and other longings for days gone by. These are the sent messages, those secret truths that lie with their weapon. Only once you have fallen so shadowy to the lit place that you needed to be can you refine the politics that are needed to design a new way.

We had to drive for miles to get back to civilization, yet I was there at the edge of town. I was with you, with mighty tomes of civilization turned to places where we do not think. There has always been a holy alter there, now it is next to a farmhouse. A new barn is near by and they have called us to the demonstration. What else can we do?

White candles line a fence that rose and fell with the dark hills surrounding it. It weaved without purpose around the back of the barn before falling into a gully and following the water to the bottom. We walked in the dark from the farmhouse to the barn and watch as our host lit two candles in silence and put them on two posts that sat ahead of it. It began with a dull tone; the sky began to weep heavy tears.

Our host began to talk, “Harm the world, dear sky, but these dimensions are not for you. The black-eyed children will take you. Bring these days for the better men, and they will always watch you and wait. I cannot call these the trials of faith.”

We stood there alone with him. My eyes began to drift.

He had always had a penchant for the dramatic.

"There have been a few reasonable torques made from the reasonable and afraid of the rose. These were the chaotic, wise apple turners that needed the China to go with the rope. Whenever we called them, their apples turned wiser and ropes came to belong to the highest resort. We walked in spatial tomes, high on the ledge and finer dressed than the righteous men who we discussed before. These were their weapons.

Fare you well, come further to drain it. Bring your shapeless mass and turn it’s mind to the roses. Care for these people because they all need your worrying and when these become dutiful thoughts than there are further things to note. I have these places when the risers made from crimes and such; they belong there made from senses and high like wise old owls and mortal tomes. Even through the shield of gibberish, I live in heaven."

five star services.

I watch from my window as the paint peels from the fence, never knowing what to do until I sit at my spot and begin to try and explain what I see. I suppose the cause of my misery is the inability to fully give up the material world. I think these materials and the expansion of my mortal world are necessary, but it is discouraging that I dance upon the sullen realization that all these things are very expensive.

These are my opinions and nothing more. Somewhere I can belong with the people who watch with their minds. Somewhere I belong with the people who watch my mind from afar. They calmly state that these potential realities are not normal and should be kept under wraps, that they are taking over my life and I need drugs, not guidance through these storms. I have made mistakes and found myself knee deep in the rose filled world, where my life is much more grand and final than it really is. But I suppose that it was going to happen as my mind is a part of this arrow, and it is still possible that somewhere I am able to be that person. I would like to work for the higher spirits, but without human intervention. I would like to get mail from a mouse and do God’s missions.

To live inside this home, with all it’s wills and peaceable energy – it is right for me, no matter what they say. There is a peace of the sky here, a place for the resources to come to, made of water and shining light. These are the shapes that come with my home. I can belong to the shape that keeps me here. I suppose it’s a light that only some understand, and that is something that I would like to discuss further – this pixilated view that I have come to see the world with, the inter-dimensional bleeding that I see and fall ill from.

Can I believe in the faith of all humanity while trying to be scared by ghosts? Should I ignore these phantoms and move towards the higher light that I can see but cannot yet transcend to? I suppose there is always something higher for me to find. Every step to the top of those metaphoric stairs brings me another trial and also some great joy about the loving feeling that I needed – something I sought for years and only recently found.

There is always a step higher. There is always something that you have to gain, no matter what your ideals and goals. Because my goals are for the treasures of enlightenment and spiritual grace, these are the steps I walk up. It is not to say that it is better than the steps of capitalism, always making more and more money, taking risks and gaining fortune – these are steps that some take and they reach their goals. Money and great fortune is more of a side project for me. It’s good that I admit that to myself now, instead of feeling the pressures of society to gain wealth and buy new cars.

Trials of the farce of this farce we call life, they say. It is just - the way there is a hopeful dream. Wandering with the lifestyles we became the longing way. I have helpful shadows called their old world white owl strangled fate and as such I light the arrow shining on from reasoned selves and as such I become the night that starves and teaches and writes itself. A reasoned cat resolved to be a highlight of the space. Staves and bridesmaids reigns decide the fashionable western eyes that watch us.

I have no mind for it. It is always the place I must start. Maybe that makes me self-centered, and perhaps these dreams are fashionable, too. I belong to these old shining beliefs that watch the dream – these are things that watch me. I have to wander from here, worried about their watching eyes and thoughts prepare me for wondrous things. Because of Lay’s Chips ad nauseum and highlights from your archetypal stereo, I belong to the new world, that one of advertisements and moving pictures.

Somewhere I believe this to be true. Cowards are going to kill me, starving with their higher lives. Believe that these parts of wishing wells are thoughtful and much will come to you. That is all that is left and still believable. I have wondered allowed and weights that bring my highlights and their foreign drip that has to be, a hope that watches and becomes the lighter edge of wanderlust. I have nothing for them.

I believe in the corpse. I believe in the higher sort of taught nonsense that lacks the lively offering and shapes the mindful thoughts of shining selves that call themselves a written web of highlights that we can all belong to. This web is a magnificent beast. It is the new age of enlightenment. I hope I can stay. There is nothing better than still being able to walk to a magic store, and restore your files on a tablet.

Don’t watch these idle coverings. Let the feed interrupt your natural destruction. Allow the waves to move through you. Be one with this generation. Allow yourself to believe with the weaves and streets that you have to walk down. Become what you are allowed to be. Watch while we sleep, but not for your whole life. Believe in the spots that mark your situation and hope that one of us has the answer.

It is hard to describe the need for these vital cases. There is no need to be fearful of the visions that are piped into the light. Heaving beasts and all sorts of thoughts that wander with the lighter files that watch with sated breathes that watch when I have the leaders and the lighters of the gracious tones we have the little bragging dates that wonder with the gracious tones. Weave through their harmony and we will shine.

Right there is the solution to this little qualm. I watch with the better self, that kind of lustful dream that interprets the shine. I have the right note and wander with the final breath and stream into this cause with the better highlights that watch them weave, breathe and weigh the issues for all that they are worth. Better than these highlight I gravely come across the weapons of my mind.

Great minds bring their harmful shapes to the light. Others choose not to, but that is the essence of a discovery. There is a hope that comes across the litter that washes up on the shores of Japan with the letters belonging to my friends. Do not let it fade away. Allow the thoughts to arrive in an untimely notion, within that fuzz that washes the earth every day we are alive. These are the gracious tomes.

Friends that need their shining high, and all the thoughts that need to breathe and I have these helter-skelter minds that watch and find us to bring their line. I have a pipe, but I should not smoke it. I am worried about the resource that lights the eye. I have these to remain true. I have these that watch the eye. Belong to them, and you have the righteous sort of cruelty that treats kids so very nicely. You have to belong with the even weight they are sitting on. I cannot bring the light arrow, yet I must.

There is a hope yet to bring to the day – something, somewhere that rests. It makes me not want to be a shard of glass. I want to belong with the sirens and wandering minds in the morning with a righteous thought and important mind. Fiends like that wake and know that only some of the writers can cause such a dream. I belong to the fearful.

They can never find me, yet here I lay in the box where they left me. Once they become like-minded, they are filled are the righteous looks that bring France towards me. Grand ideals made for weight, and all the little raids that bring with over-whelming weight. You cannot bring the little wine thoughts brought towards the burning wall. I can believe this is watching for the silence of night. It will enter my mind at this point.

There is nothing of note made out of these shapes. These are simple thoughts that watch with the righteous line. The walls wait for the beliefs and they come with the light. We have reasons to share this with them. We have nothing made out of these people. I have to believe that he comes with me. Sheep and other solved answers, white sheets handing the devil his sympathy. We have heavy blankets to thank for that.

Still there is no question, nor an answer and I must wait for the change of seasons to write the fearful notes that beckon me from some space in the future. We wait for this change in my mentality. I don’t want to be angry, but someone enters me, a soul who is angry, and I feint – I am no longer in this reality. It comes from deep longing and songs that watch the final chapter take their weight and occur with these little thoughts that need to fade. I watch this occur. There is no question in my mind these are false decisions. I must thank the good that drags me out. The righteous actions keep me from falling ill from these directions every night. It is important to thank the creation, and there is where it lies. We have no answers, because we do not ask questions. We do not ask questions because we are content. I hope these expanded thoughts result it my fate coming to light. I hope that someone helps you see your fate as well.

A History of Mighty Tomes in Jabberwocky:

I should mention before this begins; the ethereal existence I am speaking of is that existence that transcends one life and continues to lengthen every night in dreams, the entirety of existence, not always recognized by the properly functioning mind. This existence is seen as the simple light of day when I am hypo-manic. This is the best description of my last trip, which was haunted by the reasoning that I was neither who I was nor where I was, for the record.

The town of Riddles is half way between two lakes with mythical monsters, deep places where elves and other little people live underwater. Many people visit this place in their dreams. It is a place where people who have taken a lot of grief in their ethereal existence can live freely and peaceably with one another in harmony, it is sometimes considered never-never land. It is a funny looking town, made of wood and stone, saturated with varied architecture and an important mix of race and religion.

There are a number of streets that are famed from people’s dreams. There are restaurants that people want to come to because they recall them vaguely from hundreds of year prior, places that when the travelers arrive the servers are the same people and the food is as delicious as they remember. There are harmless dragons flying above, those spirits are seen at the tops of the lakes on the higher layer of earth and considered as many great beasts documented but debated by great minds.

The roads weave a labyrinth that some can be lost in. The mailboxes dance as you pass through the mazes unharmed. There are well cared for houses, with spindles and towers, flights of stairs on the outsides and ghosts in silent windows. The alleys are narrow and marked with old paint from history, advertisements for outdated products and things that are not yet available. There are glorious murals of many kinds showing the color and character of those that decide to stay and live in this city of the spirit.

There are a very many angels in this town. Unbeknownst to some, they all work for the light – as it is a path that any spirit will find eventually. Mostly these folks appear as humans to help people find their way, as many travelers wind up in a town of Riddles. They will also appear as the birds, cats and other animals that people want to be within their dreams. The city is riddled with deer, which are living here in harmony with the people. It is a place the confused come across, whether or not they are searching for answers. It is a place that people wind up when they need to learn a lesson, before they are sent back to where they came from by falling asleep. It is common to see a group of children walking down these streets singing, “We all went to heaven, went to heaven last night!” next to people lucid dreaming, trying to fly and laughing idly as the gracious coffee shops that make them feel at home. There is always music in the streets.

I made a shop on Main Street in the town of Riddles as a trap.

It sold abstract art and had a hardwood floor that sent long lines from the front door of the narrow refuge to the small rooms at the back. The first of these two rooms was decorated with miniature scene of a red and ramshackle city where people who worked on the tops of trophies lived. Tall houseplants made the miniature city under a forest. At the entrance to the room there was a path the second back room, which mostly kept buckets of paint and mops for the coffee spill that once kept me from sitting on the couch.

A month after the coffee spill I was sitting on the windowsill out front smoking and a scared man charred by fire danced towards me uncomfortably. He was smiling when he saw me, so I recommended the Indian restaurant next door. As a local, I explained that he was in a different dimension and he raised his chest, making a strange noise but not saying anything. I told him I would meet him inside, closed my shop and entered the delicious restaurant.

There were tables on both the floor and ceiling of this restaurant, with a flight of spiral stairs in the corner that would allow you to reach the other level. The walls were deep purple with beautifully rendered portraits hanging both directions. The buffet was at the back, near the kitchen and you had to walk on the ceiling to reach the food. Only once did food fall from the ceiling to the floor, and at that moment the chef transcended to a higher level of earth, having learned everything he could have in Riddles. He was never seen again by anyone I know well, although his wife told the paper that he still lives in town, and that he has his own restaurant. I have never been able to find it, but I digress.

The charred man and myself sat in the corner booth at the back of the ground level, at his request. He ordered from the menu, I walked to the buffet. When I sat at the table the charred man gave me a note. I have transcribed it in full, and it is as follows.

“This is a serious and big storm.

Tens of millions take their minds off these woes and light a candle, fearing the night and the loss of life that marks its grand tone. Some monastery with its highest order finds me here and I must run and hide, for them to watch me and wait longer for the great nights of later life. Wondering about these shapes, I remain.

When they come to me, I fall with them. I have their options and along their lines I find truth. Wondering with these like-minded selves I have inside me, but separated from it, I must slither along the forest floor and find my options spiked with diseases and sullen wrapping. It always makes my silent light quiver to know that these dripping mazes are for me. Kindly old elves make their way to me, if nothing else because it is the right thing to do. They help me rise to them and note that I cannot see.

Shine with the others, belittling dances and foreign jobs taken by our middle class families. I am not like them, and they watch through silver jail walls. This is the mistake made by some and also the path of the righteous man. Sheep, never the wiser, remain at the holy vineyard and bah peacefully at the grapes that must be harvested for the coming batches of wine. They will never find the truth until they see the fallen stars.

While sitting and waiting I must find the failed state and bring it to me like a shining watch that sits atop a dresser and is never used because it is not deserved of the attention given to the one that the man bought himself. It tells time just the same, but does not mean the same thing to him. Shy as he is, he cannot mention that he does not want gifts.

Later they found out that the greasy monkey sitting on the fence found it’s home wandering through the gardens of the mighty signs brought towards the gracious sign that watches me from the shining light of the outdoors. I cannot go out there, or the peaceable sorts will get me. I cannot belong because the sheltered form is for me. The elves keep me here because they must. I am happier knowing that I can just sit in this home and learn about the world as best I am able. These are the graceful things I find, those that belong to me.”

I asked him if this was something from myself. He raised his chest and made an odd sound, the sound of the small microphone with too much gain, a sharp red tone that filled the whole room. The pattern of the sound made me feel he had something to say, but I could not understand it.

I nodded and began to eat my food. The charred man began to shrink, becoming wrinkled and seeming longer. A smell rose from the obscene incident, but it was not unpleasant. He then began to laugh, with the same harsh tone that marred our discussion before. The way he rolled his head back told me it was a laugh. I knew he was laughing because I felt that I was in customer service, or maybe it was because he realized I was not on his side. After that we ate in silence. I drank water. He drank nothing.

to sit and type or type and sit

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is for sure a body of work.

There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see. That world is just a distraction.

more shadows talking

They talk to me like a shadow, shapes for their name.

These are the details of their wet head, running in the rain. I hope she walks in today, high and mighty like the western sky. I can only fall without the believable sort of rearview mirrors that watch me like their highlighted falling grace. I am certain these are the chaotic words that watch me when I become the nightly grace. These are the sorts of people who want to know for their own purposes. Could they belong to me?

There is only the righteous drama with their holy ghost. These are the written woes of the shining site, some place they must belong. I can believe that I have something within my highest order. Sometimes there are weapons believing these harder truths. There is some sort of simple draft that will keep all the people belonging to their own selves. There is a detail somewhere that lifts me. This is my hope.

Still we watch with mindless objectives. The mind is like a believable sauce, the sort of place that grand gestures come through. When the people watch, I must believe that the camera pans to a thread holding their order. This is the maze of the titles with these works and quietly why such gracious tomes come to rest in this dear hall. Sometimes I belong to the faceless order. Somewhere I belong to these wrapped mortals. When they come to leave I surely watch to learn.

I do not recommend these wiry thoughts to anyone. Careless as they are, we are encouraged to meditate. Shine with these righteous sorts of belittling sources, the people who watch while I wander through these streets with the light and the sword and the fountain of youth. Where these shapes are, I cannot say. Where they breathe and dine, they must somehow come to the truth. Why they are not there yet, I cannot say. Perhaps it is because I have lacked to ask the right questions.

As these places fall in kind and the righteous kinds of mortals send their happiest thoughts towards the red-marked screen and light the sky with their thoughts I regretfully inform myself that this course of hypnosis soundly sells it’s details, for over the places that I fly, I come to these causal solutions. Where the wind blows, my friend, which is where I wish to be. Yet, without the poetic mind, I’d rather spend the day sitting and writing about these gracious tones.