There's a small place which, in a small way, makes a fair go at perfection within. But it's just a reflection.
And so, on: a note to no one.
She held a shell in hand from a dry shore and wondered. And so wandered that she did. And pondered a reflection of a small thing held within.
Go ahead, reiterate a misconception. I do, and I'll lie about it later if you ask me to. Don't act so surprised, it's just me and you.
Know it has no meaning. Just a feeling.
Slanted shadows. Tinted windows. Blinking lights upon a marquee. Make the meadows less impressive with a hefty dose of fury.
More a yearning, less a passion. And I'm late, too late for me.
What a rhythm, what a madness. What a colonoscopy.
Life is salient entropy. ME AND Me And me and me.
