Strong shadows hazel to and fro as Jonah’s boat embarked the seas. Upon the starry canvas my gaze fathomed the mysteries of preconceived notions. Could variables destroy the spontaneity of affect? Why is knowledge less sweet when loosened by prerequisite experience? Cannot I also enter the tribunes or will I only be the lonely. However, Nothing surpasses the purpose that shines so intently when one knows. The salad is ready. I split the peas and crunched the olives! A voice, whose voice, oh his voice. I better go and sort him. Thanks for the joint and talk captain. Anytime, I often squander pieces of heaven. I turn around holding unto the side of boat, the water is choppy, and climb down the stairs to the deck below. Art is enslaving me again. I wonder what connections Jonah has with the marine establishment? A seaman he is, never does he ever set pleasures on firm ground. There is a tree above my head when I sleep. My bed corners it in. I respond strongly to my lavender sheets for they remind me of summer rain. Glad I fold and wake from slumber, for it is in a quiet place I retire to, when time comes. It does so in varied increments for I have initiated a radical schedule change. The long understated road pressed into service by routine, cemented within a desire to crumble. But held high an upright air to breeze the wondering heart and bruise the wandering get. It makes you wonder why if all who wander are not lost does anyone ever gate back from the track lost in wonderment wandered. Within routine lies the treasure of impulse. Pulse, pulse, death.
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