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.