but each truth-seeking man seeks no marriage, no eden as such, but the turbulent fate of a brotherhood: a family of men thrown into the depths of the north sea with no sight of feminine comforting, for a thousand years at least if note more: so she might be strained for giving affection and refrained from philandering: the wiser the man the more reward he sees in a brotherhood, than a harem.*
that seagull white backdropped against the plum purple bruises of the sky pampered with immediately lashing out a torrent but for seagull's sake withdrawing for a consistency of colours not mingling into a drear opening of a letter addressed for some dear mr., in that virtuoso of waters cascading: wishing i too had no umbrella or be miniature under a mushroom, as i am and forever will be, an ant's lack of sweat lifting its bodyweight and more over bookmarks and crevices we sweated rivers for, and died, exaggerating... the outlasted remains of chiselled rock, when others took to climbing non-chiselled rock of mountain for a compass they thought would make others plagiarise their lives for theirs, having accomplished the climb of the heights thus suggested with no other comparative issuing of demands... indeed to what height to what depth is there a guarantee to be given? to what depth to what height is a guarantee of adoration lawfully bindingly fulfilled with red carpet 24 hour surveillance paparazzi? we have unlearned the face broken by stone and forest pine... instead we learned to be an epileptic narcissus blinking into the frozen mirror of the lake... but our face breaks a thousand upon a thousand more times like this... for in looking elsewhere, we forsake ownership of the things that never reflected us, but were made mandible by us, so now we have become mandible by them, for the once prized mirror of narcissus in the lake, has become a blinking circus act we dare not believe.