The... melancholia strikes me two ways, it's as a sineater a blasphemous regret read failure to learn-from, now so much instropective a miasma of plagairism the retention of an idea, and as something cloying and toying with me to understand, at face value a remuneration as I'd put it, which fascinates a tactical hindsight, a puzzle of its own distraction.
A beginning reborn in the dying light, a pattern-based dillusion of the intrepid and grave corners of the mind -- an irregular regulation, an illogical logic, a crow's eye made of light come harrower of harbinged intellect against the comoflauge of perfect reflection.
As it takes place one third of the story strewing and recurrings recrued this I know as much as you. These things, what would ask of late, whence would ask of where.
Some time since writting one of these posts the blatant nature of attitude and ego where the imagination simply wonders at daydreams' power to hold or root responds to the self-same morality of kith and kin, more so than the impetus of the title.
A daydream melody echoes as the multidimensional, itself a sphere of influence spinning like a celestial body, the waves of the cosmos singing in colors, the echoes of eternity glowing as waves of the universal, the prism of conscience from each mind projects its dreams toward the stars, sonic tides and waves an eminating signal to which we all replace the absence of strategy.
I spoke to my... about the white place, learning from my given mentor, this of thoughts was unweaponed in lieu of intellect, this then of my dreams came with crushing morality, but only as a respite from immorality, sans desperate narcisistic distraction this electric place of tv snow and images burning into immediacy, was lost, and of reverie a training ground defiant of unchangeable memories and actionable past.
From life I tell you -- past is progress, present is existence, future is endeavor.
A viceful sits and gleefully spites one day, their mind a light in the infinite wavelength of colors, the spectrum of which is more vast than the cosmos that cutely blankets the temporal plane; they stand still in their avatar within the mindscape, glowing, described one way or another some different logic/word and later, dreaming the swift are all that are in their daydream and using description as a weak replacement for thought.
Then of the habitful, to which sees great strides and strife as much as writing this may be sleepful and asunder, in these times of returning to realities; in no less than a parable of watching a second on a clock, longer for the first make, for that time changes our lives, each trading revelation for reverence of a screaming light, the truth that insomnia has come.
In the loo wondering why the walls at work have art, and the ones in public don't sign "Art Only, All Else Erased."
The keys fly faster than I can crawl. The graffiti of ancient Pompeii is the same 2K years later, and from a natural catastrophe they at least ran, today, we've so much to do without keyboards.
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