Deleted words arrive in another's sentences.
Somehow this is natural selection at work in a being that may not exist apart from me.
One perceives and prattles.
The image mollifies what exactly?
Objects of consciousness bend the reeds of understanding exactly cultivated for survival.
Means to an end, which is really continuation, and one must begin to consider if living is actually the endgame.
And gamers, I am not amused.
Nor am I heartsick for happily ever more.
I've made no decisions about whom to be, instead waking to meet whomever is present to immigrate with this spilling soul.
No soul mates; only the recognition of Soul in the labor of life.
Beloved, walk as you do; away or towards. Go to the river and kneel. Build, destroy, teach, and restore. You've pushed me above the fray and it is well.
In the end, if ever there is an arrival, the heart of existence will beat with or without that which we claim as necessary.
Or something spiritual like that.