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. ; )
