manuscriptx
New Member
(Time is not a fixed concept.)
In awhile; I was very intent on destroying the very promise I had made on my predictions. I had told him to shower off the dirty linen of air; the smell covered plenty of contradictions that lasted a full page an hour. Three times I asked him for clarity. Three times I got no answer or half-witted response to the stay of execution. A time when all thoughts were cut off from the brain and the intelligence of two groups of minds; one that’s very loyal to pain and one that's never certain of the arrogant pleasure taken from seeing each trifle over table scraps and pieces of paper. Information was not forthcoming so I had to decide fast on what applicable forthright to take. I could seam the edges and make it seem like there was no exit and strangle off any communication of simple allegories or I could make it seem tentative and tattered with danger.
Those were the words of a seamstress. One that could sew sheets of imperfect circumstance and terrify thought try as though I might the tin cup of water and be thirsty the next time around when someone came calling. I feel a draft coming through that window. It makes my fingers tingle. I feel somewhat responsible for never giving him a chance; two and one-half significance; where light is upon the darkness, goodness is without hate; forgiveness having nothing left short of betrayal. Lucky and so so on and so forth; this advance before the night has ever fallen and left to wonder why there is a tussle game of pleasure. So too will this end from the pitiful bowels of an apoplectic behavior; we'll see how much there’s little left after some prodding and rationing. We'll see how far these letters to God will give me. I’m sorry, I apologize. I forgive you.
In awhile; I was very intent on destroying the very promise I had made on my predictions. I had told him to shower off the dirty linen of air; the smell covered plenty of contradictions that lasted a full page an hour. Three times I asked him for clarity. Three times I got no answer or half-witted response to the stay of execution. A time when all thoughts were cut off from the brain and the intelligence of two groups of minds; one that’s very loyal to pain and one that's never certain of the arrogant pleasure taken from seeing each trifle over table scraps and pieces of paper. Information was not forthcoming so I had to decide fast on what applicable forthright to take. I could seam the edges and make it seem like there was no exit and strangle off any communication of simple allegories or I could make it seem tentative and tattered with danger.
Those were the words of a seamstress. One that could sew sheets of imperfect circumstance and terrify thought try as though I might the tin cup of water and be thirsty the next time around when someone came calling. I feel a draft coming through that window. It makes my fingers tingle. I feel somewhat responsible for never giving him a chance; two and one-half significance; where light is upon the darkness, goodness is without hate; forgiveness having nothing left short of betrayal. Lucky and so so on and so forth; this advance before the night has ever fallen and left to wonder why there is a tussle game of pleasure. So too will this end from the pitiful bowels of an apoplectic behavior; we'll see how much there’s little left after some prodding and rationing. We'll see how far these letters to God will give me. I’m sorry, I apologize. I forgive you.