trextasy
Something or nothing from nothing, I guess. It exists in ourselves only so temporary, tenuous. How I wish we would have stricken more tangible terms.
Put into place, a place to be put into. Studied? There's a uniformity, a tightness, a white line of singularity precise and absolute. Sudden and infinite.
Apart, a part, what is the real difference? To be alone, to be around to be on the edges of the things but not within. What is there really but alone, either self imposed or by someone else?
Me Me Me, always so self important. Hardened, yes, malleable, yes. But there is a rigidity there in the utility of this, in the smell and character of the thing.
Little moments, little movements, I don't know how many. Tip tip tap along, forward or backwards. By now, too much in this or that direction, knowing nowhere. nowhere to come.
On the surface, she's more like the beginning than the end, not a new start, but an edge of finality that begets her true intentions. What is it to be warm, to be light, to let the colors envelope everything?