It seems, to me, that there is a golden filigree that haloes all the centres that surround us. And a friend of mine asked is that the good kind or the bad to which I reply, of course, with a shrug.
Do you like it or not? That's the eternal question to which I have no answer, only my eyes wildly swivelling, trying to take it all in although there is, of course, nothing to see.
It seems, to me, that there is a depressional pedigree that leads all the centres that define us. And a heart of mine asked is that the wound kind or the balmed to which I reply, of course, with a cry.
Do you love me or not? That's the eternal action which I cannot answer, only my eyes widely swivelling, trying to block it all out although there is, of course, nothing to escape.
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