Where are the notes that were supposed to checker this white-washed idea bubble? Did their ikigai send them eastward? Even songs of emptiness cannot be played without a key.

Eyes emit fantod, hoping sympathy might merit return of a melody to its proper place–soothing the space under ruffled bangs.

Ivories, motionless, have no pressure upon themselves. Silence cut with a scramasax would be welcomed with ready fingers; this heart is bleeding for inspiration.

Blooms of blouse inked. Blooms of garden watered and sunned. When will blooms of mind appear? Patience may wear into tensify, but devotion will aware into versify–and, the bouquet will play. ; )


Imaginarians in paradise need not imagine anymore unless they dream of the less ideal or wish for ventures through another door.

Brushing fingers are slightest waves that set mind’s peace adrift; thoughts empty of honks and cries and those who hurt and grift.

Not quite an aplustre is red thong of derrière, but equally drawn to follow it with awe leads some to places novel and rare.

Divertissement to the north seems like a sunny place to head. Laters are for other cardinals and the wonders they present instead. ; )

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