Wet ink shine resigns itself to dullness. Soothing scent of flowered tea jar, not competing with the pleading of a glance grown withered--the countenance of frustration and its need for nameless destruction. Then there's always something farther along--touched-up rhythm resounds in life's pneumatic bloodstream. Tapped-out, not sullen-quite sounds mark bittersweet ears immortal, not merely hearing ruckus. Late nights the swing-setters--happy folks come out their gladdened homes! Wearing white & black, to keep the colors for a moment their own. Imagine the image of freedom displayed. Legs that pump slowly; heads that lay back, hands that hold light and dare the wildest spread of open arms... Who skips this bliss, every night you don't know to wonder? Where does it come from, the body-dwelling fullness of spirit that springs to blessed distraction of breath? Until wondering so, soon becomes itself a wonder, wandering about without dilemma.

...from old lovers to ancient impressions, we hope.

How many times undone can one person be, as they're careening through the facade of their favorite fantasy? - Ani D.

Ran merely through a person of my past--'tis it, and simply.  How is it that we can think of one another in this way?  As impressions made subtly upon our lives, rather than as holders divine of a life untold to us?  Still?  Or from now on.  My eyes are tugged curiously to the potential of these thus-far daydreams, but are already denied, seeing from out this me-shaped filter.  "Alas" or "Hallelujah!", and there be no alternative.

The unmoving breeze would otherwise be scented with incense.  My desk chair squeaks inexplicably beneath me, without the encouragement of my restlessness; with the conviction of a creature beyond the promise of loss.  I play recklessly with strange combinations of words, really having nothing but convoluted anticipation to confess.  I'll write again when I remember how much there should be to say -- while we figure we still can, of course.

Faretheewell folks,
-Talthea (9/16/08)