Words fail. A happening ceases to be happening and just is.
As if subconsciously, deliberation becomes the same as breathing blinking, equilibrium, panic, and then all at once,
All become impetuous.
Turn into some twist of fate, or some happenstance; it doesn't matter which. All that matters is the pulsing dilation of the skin over her veins. The crashing, writhing, weaving, turning, twisting waves of her body mirroring mine and vice versa. I am just here; present. Face flush to downy hair while wandering in some chaotic void of uncertainty and doubt and violent turbulence.
Words become meaningless.
All hope of understanding this fleshy, helter-skelter concept of A sinuous 'élan vital' to 'inevitable ceasing death' All hope of understanding fails.
But I will forever be in this calm of the storm. Witnessing this pastel scene behind your eyes. Through the nihilism and anarchy I feel I am right where I need And that is all that needs be.