...

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.