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There I sit, in the middle of two very different beings, in my huge white tanktop and a pair of a gym shorts.
There sits Leonardo Wilde, his huge mane grows wild, he growls when angered and continually is pondering and writing and talking with me about ideas, his full suit is smooth and well kept after, and his Gryffindor tie has the best Windsor knot the world has ever seen, no shoes cover his paws.
There sits Ash Lee, an unformed, vague shape of a humanoid, his mouth is unformed, his thoughts are primordial, and he wonders what he will become. I do not know how he hears, but when I give him an idea, he shakes his head everytime at it. Perhaps I even wonder what he will become.
There we sit, trading ideas and opinions of ideas all day long. We all pass out at the same time of night, and all rise promptly at 6:15 AM each morning, and immediately begin our conversing again. We dream the same dreams, think the same thoughts, live the same life, but we are still not the same.
And that makes us great.
:;,

Leonardo Wilde Apr 17

There he lay, sleeping gently, sleeping quietly
There he lay, awake, rubbing the sleep out of his little eyes with his little fists, blinded by the low sunrise
There he lay, meeting eyes with me, both of us simply staring at each other
Child, sweet boy, little infant, return to sleep, this world is much too blinding, much too loud, much too dirty, for something so pure as you.
Do you even know? That someday, 17 years, you will be sitting where I am, perhaps having these same thoughts towards someone born 17 years after you?
That you could be riding an old yellow piece of scrap metal on wheels at 8 in the morning
The sun blinding you
The music pounding in your ears
The good morning text from your girlfriend?
No, no, little one, go sleep, return to your little infantile dream.
This world is too much for you.
It is too much for me.
The only difference is seventeen years.
Close your sweet little eyes.
Seventeen years.
:;,
10:48
9/28/16

Leonardo Wilde Apr 11

I am experiencing a reverse writer’s block.
I want to write
Yet have nothing to write about.
:;,

We exist in 3 dimensions, but only move in 2.
We exist backward and forward, left and right, and up and down. Just have another person stand still and check them out.
But, in normal travel, we only go left or right, and forwards or backwards. (If anything, 2.5 dimensions, unless you back your car up in very odd amounts.)
Our cars do not fly yet, so we don't regularly go up and down.
I don't know, I just found that very fascinating. It hit me on the bus, watching another car travel while traveling.
I find a lot of things fascinating.
:;,

Leonardo Wilde Mar 27

“It scares me to death.”
Oh, no.
It scares me far beyond death.
It scares me into eternity.
:;,

Leonardo Wilde Mar 21

William Carlos Williams:
“so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.”
I don't know what it means, but I know it exists and that Dr. Williams wrote it while waiting for a child to die.
So, perhaps, it’s his way to dedicate something to that poor child.
Nothing depends in the red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water, beside the white chickens, but maybe that’s what was around him while the child was dying, and his death is depending upon...something. Or his life is depending on something.
Or maybe the child loved that red wheelbarrow, or it was a toy red wheelbarrow.
Or maybe the child contracted his fatal end from touching an old wheelbarrow.
But either way, the red wheelbarrow was glazed in rainwater, beside the white chickens
A child died
And so much depended on that wheelbarrow.
Or did it?
:;,

Leonardo Wilde Mar 14

I fear the uncertainty of individual thought and reaction thereof.
:;,

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