I am wind. I blow through your hair. I fade at times, but I am still here.

Love is a strong word.
It could be either real or fake.
Most people use love as revenge or to mend a broken heart of their own.
Most people use and respect love as if a precious gem given to them from someone who they love and trust dearly.
Love could be either misused or mistaken.
Love could be real or fake.

Day's and night's pass by and I'm still thinking of you.
Oh, how I'd give to forget about you. All the wasted time you took from my life.
My mind tells me that I love you, But my heart tells me otherwise.
I need to move on. I need to breathe again. I need to stop living in the past and live in the present,
But for some reason, it keeps bring me back.

Mescalito is around us.
He verges upon the release of inhibition, and stalks those who are willing to see.
Let us pursue oneness amongst these flickering flames of planetary and future nostalgia.
As I can taste your apprehension, it is wise to be aware that preconceived ideas break the flow of the sacred circle, my friend of genuine naivete.
In lunar amazement, I beckon you to join the dance of perception, where what is deemed to be reality is a mere mould of societal conformity.
The definition of fear is nothing less than False Expectations Appearing Real.
If you dare to acknowledge the force of a gentle breeze of the wind, then you will become aware that she is a directional voice in the wilderness.

The simple leaf displays her complexity with utmost transparency, whilst beautiful chords convey a rhythm which is beyond the parameters of articulation.
A droplet of dew can generate a deep sense of perspective in the South Eastern gardens of Saxony, where uncertainty droops her head with daily lamentations and the quest for connectedness.
Is it possible for us to be at one now?
Let us give credence to ancient runes, as we are wanting in our understanding of pagan orchards.
Every picture tells a story under a forest canopy, where stagecoaches compete against highwaymen of contemporary political propaganda.
Numerology is depicted in your iris.
Grow your plants, and we will engage at an opportune time, with wise insights.
Semantics are inadequate to define familial bonds.

From a criminological perspective, the gradations of evil may lead to cannibalistic tendencies.
However, I am being stalked by a dark entity which lurks beneath the pulsating vibrations of subtle and occult ley lines.
Permit me to be so bold: How fashionable are our social mores?
And in which direction do you travel?
When we put it all together, the isolated parts generate a fullness of sound which surpasses the acoustic corridor of ancient souls.
I understand that the parameters of Saturn resound with impersonal barks from that old black dog of menacing stealth.
Do you know why?
Because academia lacks the authenticity of genuine experience.
Now, my friend, let us continue to walk down the street of morning where blackbirds whistle in the branches of ancestral bonding.

I am captivated by the pattern of a tiled staircase where fountain pens scribe forbidden texts upon spiral bannisters which lead to debased psychological states.
Do we have permission on this stage of trajectory, to fire statements into unfathomable corridors, which surpass today into the realms of tomorrow?
Dark figures writhe in the thick fog of eclectic séances.
I have engaged in nightly astral flights down the streets of blatant innocence.
Are you standing on the inside?
Bring me back from what is deemed to be modernity and bypass my voltage where uncertain predictability is a predictable uncertainty.

sooner or later
everything needs each other,
and there i felt purpose.