Geometric white light
connects joints of past and singularity
heated tension building through fingernails
and luke-warm glass of water sitting idly by.

Jitters, man. The jitters are strong this time, deep and invigorating. Can't sing, can't comprehend the average. Nothing average.

Feel what's right,
let footsteps fall simply
a pathway predestined, predisposed
to second chances but intimately present.

Eyes are repulsive. Why can't you look through them? Into the soul. It's rude, souls are *****. Resonate deeply, learn the way of vibration, vibrate freely, child.

Don't miss it.
Let it flow, the right is natural,
and ******* breath passes through all
that is just.

The scene sways to double voices,
and the library stillness
draws dull attention into
warbling intricacy
flitting amongst television feelings.
A surface connection
waits at half the distance
to every pretty looking girl
that passes by.

But the cracks are the most interesting.
In sidewalks,
in streets,
in spirit.
I'd let their faults divide them
into one of the sixteen trash bins
on the way to class.
It's only past,
and the significance is imprinted
upon the present.

And I guess it's a heavy cotton flannel kind of day.
One dissociated from hard wood,
where the metal corners
nestle in a thick layer of fabric,
and embrace it.
The heavy cotton clouds only embrace for so long,
the fog replicates familiar separation anxiety
in the early morning consistency.
Midnight swells from the left
to steal the rays from my room.