I Like to Write From Time to Time
The half hearted makes the hovering entities frown, and they speak in barely audible tones in a slithery whisper, ears that beat out a rhythmically enriched duration turns whisper into song.
Some telling wind carries what? A sneeze, halo for the neck, and robaxacet. Slides down into the apothecaries, fascination with objects, but blades of grass memories simplify, and one meanders slow into the earthy, into and towards that which is un-nameable.
When named it turns into dust, and oil gushes down from the clownish hobgoblin of factual dysentery, and applying aloe, Vera the nurse hums a dittie from the 1920's, the walls turn nicotine color, and it's recess somwhere nearby.
How senior citizens can arrive at a mild state, looking placidly on, seemingly untroubled, but not devoid of sympathy, things one observes, things one experiences, and things also one collects along the way, no north, west, south and east, but a million directions between the ears, and also as many times, and each thing that there is, there is it's opposite, and variations too. Grounded in this cosmic interiority, one may then progress into a subject in extraordinary depth, armed with patience and the un-nameable, and it is as if the end is only a concept reserved for the mood and not for actuality. The dream that is called now.
Some telling wind carries what? A sneeze, halo for the neck, and robaxacet. Slides down into the apothecaries, fascination with objects, but blades of grass memories simplify, and one meanders slow into the earthy, into and towards that which is un-nameable.
When named it turns into dust, and oil gushes down from the clownish hobgoblin of factual dysentery, and applying aloe, Vera the nurse hums a dittie from the 1920's, the walls turn nicotine color, and it's recess somwhere nearby.
How senior citizens can arrive at a mild state, looking placidly on, seemingly untroubled, but not devoid of sympathy, things one observes, things one experiences, and things also one collects along the way, no north, west, south and east, but a million directions between the ears, and also as many times, and each thing that there is, there is it's opposite, and variations too. Grounded in this cosmic interiority, one may then progress into a subject in extraordinary depth, armed with patience and the un-nameable, and it is as if the end is only a concept reserved for the mood and not for actuality. The dream that is called now.
