Franchised emotions. Braided overlays of buttered dreams. Heavy with the lard of grain fed memories.
Follow the title, it explains the direction if not the reason and will cover when all else recedes.
Falling shy of opening equations is less a point of damage than creating un-allocated endings.
We tumble through posts, accessing via accords of Elder agreement. There was no way forming here, yet now we have a path of pointed direction. And who will know it?
Logic is for smaller boxes, playing with stark geometry. We fly in liquid taste seams, experiencing through flurried curtains - a borrowed meter marking off checkerboard squares with absent attention.
Happiness forms the boundary for dimmer vision; a water-fat membrane providing solidity in the voided nothing. I fascinate upon the process of living, wondering at its terminal nature and pretentious veil.
What value remains in suffering when the lesson reaches no conclusions? The tapestry is changed, and the tale woven a new ending. We wait for the script, tapping tunes with cold fingertips on ancient armrests.
This is the sallying point.
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