My little story bored queen plays under an up yanked umbrella. She had a time to ponder and wonder but now the wind has flushed even her unabridged reclusion nestled one mile down her beach estate. For her, these times linger longer when her up stretched arm holds the umbrella stick in place out of the wind. It’s an avoidable situation only a true free spirit can surpass and go yonder. Of course the sand-blown wind meddles with her kettles and ultimately with her willing mind and she, with both hands, grabs the inverted spokes and rises to confront the mighty wind head on. The waves, the wind and the dropped notes in her head mesh in tune to rattle the beats her body abides by and bye bye. She glides and twirls slowly, dips into small crouched positions and bounces along the side of the concave rock. She hums, pati ti pa pata ta .. You winds are old. And old stone-ry that my bliss yes blissful enchanted self ……. She cuts the wind with her once protection, now weapon, in hand and ooof, hall. Raindrops hop from heaven; the waves perk up excited and trash the beach end. The wind attacks back and picks up, in a twirl, a piece of paper. It lifts within and free falls gently back barely touching the sand and is aspirated high one last time meeting water droplets. The no longer bored queen of my creed is projecting hilarity as she uncontrollably spins. The sun carries her prolonged shadow far across the side of the beach. She now chants: I need to redeem myself, come to me wind and I will follow. The soaked paper flaps and clasps unto her upturned face and spinning body, broken umbrella in hand. "Oh my wind on your body flows, it meanders, touching when laughter finds and binds you." She peels off the sudden tapestry molding her face and stops; dropping the umbrella, paper in hand. Ultimately knowing within the desire of one’s self to surpass the navigating sensation that enables the willing into the consummate flush of the Divine unfledged. I am unsure of what enables me to trance vest the obvious and splurge unaware. The paper in my hands I holds still as I am. Up the hand my eyes match what beholds. Clean clear cluttered cleanse come to my cumbersome countenance to clout the clemencies of clandestine chums. 1-410-538-7200, 404 via santorio. Call for the unexpected, received. 410 dials into blazes of serene meager some surroundings. Entails the superfluous behavior of one’s unbending digital input? No, it’s the unsurpassed mediated, unwilling geomancy that without pertinent knowledge glimpses pieces of truth. My truth is filled with idiosyncrasies that pile high. You think it’s easy to manifest strife and love at the same time? I am unsure of the sweet sensation that when abided governs me to ruin. Ruin? Ok, look at the paper dummy lass incorporated.