i push and go with the ebb and flow of the single unfamiliar familiarity i know.
a mind is never made up more or less than the bed on which its pillow and head may rest.
oftentimes i lay waking cursing the modest, decent and demure, be it abhorrence or fear, my blood boils 'til pure.
a wish for the chance to take back a broad shouldered stance, a plea to be cellophane given one final chance.
classic traps set by the hunter for he, the pitfalls of speculation, a confused un-question of fealty.
as man can plan for every last detail, the merits of such in comparison pale.
a hobby, comeuppance or mere charade promised ahead, a heart out of place or stopped beating feels heavy as lead.
i wish i could live simultaneous parallel lives shifting continuously in every temporal direction.
