Things. That brake, fall, fragmented and from scar made again as a collage of memories and past. Something beautiful made by the scrutinity of the mind. How can we avow the the seconds that had ticked by in blimey water of slow revival. When you think that places are alway made for the taste of your choice that you so judiciously has made. We are frail and fallen away. Into the bits of ashes that are set free by the winds of time. Time. Again the worst prim of imprisonment. You project yourself as an image through time, and you come out as a frame of confound dignity weighed down by callous use of relations thus, truly so becoming the the wants that have not been noted for. The harshness of crude reality, which is hardly ever justified or refined by empathy and human kindness. It becomes a variable to the void term REAL. The blaze of bitterness that comes forward. Get real, yeah look around where this time has tele-ported you. I am probably optimistic about my opportunities. Where, the doors are opened for a new light, or the sweet melodrama that the phrase brings. But, the dust of nostalgia and scent of the past never stops.Who must care now. They are free and limitless. Let them be. Now, here starkly, waiting into the day of din.
Hunger comes back, hurled back into reality. The scents of better foods come back.
Bon Nuit. (whatever, it calls for.)
