i was at the beach today: there was a line in the sand. some boys drew it with the broken arm of a glorious tree: the splurging wood; the burning leaves; but
a tree no less.
i stand in the gloaming of the tides; and on one side of the line. you me, there here.
had, i, you, we. once had. telepathy; but it's mostly gone now, stolen by the line some brats drew for us.
i say to my friends that a gift is genetic; you are either one of three; i expound:
the weak is what isn't and won't be; you end up hurt and resentful. the stubborn is what will be and always be; you end up egotistical and obnoxious. the talented is what is-- can be- - (nature; nurture; whatever)
and will be. you still end up hurt, resentful, egotistical and obnoxious.
then i conclude: so i suppose all gifts lead to rome.
pale as the white breeze, the eye cannot maketh its crease, the trough, the zennith, the power...it speaks...it reeks...Oh! how it piques my curiosity! how it delves into the nebulous truth of reality, how it
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