I can only imagine the implications of furled trees and fortifications growing pollen bees surprising surreptitious and surmising pathways twisted born in air cradled cuddled coddled care. Weary bleary false conceptions — drawn out drowning death connections… How can the smallest thing grow out of hand? The truth uncouth: what lies? Unplanned. And if I am an honest Tweak, and in genuinely unique. I can’t help be lost as I ponder what it is that others wonder. Or how they wander searching answers, a lust for truth beyond the boarders of what they consider secure and safe, what makes them fear and even grief. And in the nonsense that I blurt, I, too, am scared of what that’s worth — and who interprets it and how, but I must just live within the now.
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