There is no hatred. I know this, for here I sit with toil for want of description. Yet still I attempt to describe. Inefficiently am I ever inadequate. Inspiration, like a virgin, comes suddenly, and much to the same, is quick to tell you that they've been fucked.
The fierce desire to share colloquy is rebuked by thought. How I wish for the ability to write 'without applying a deliberate decision making process.' But that's for the life that Everyone gets to see. This, however, is the life which serves to imbue said life.
Does obscurity alienate, or encourage inquiry? Hope longs for the latter. Only the weary resist the urge for inquest. But sleep is the enemy of those who dare to dream. And forever may those who reprovision not allow the answer to go unquestioned.
