Journal: Entry for Panorphaeon

That role so effortlessly filled, type-cast as a matter of fact, where many had failed before. What made that leap from ideal to actual, sealing boyhood in stone but refreshing its tears at the same time, her comfort so apparently mundane while making every simple procedure seem spiritual? The rapid pace of our about-facing and at-easing made for a pleasing string of over-lapping cadences, so that i could hover blissfully free of these damning abysmal considerations and quantifications claiming simple or absolute, grandiose minute assert refute, observed, projected, described -- no. Just experienced, and fully, described only by presence itself, the word let loose at last in a wild moment to parade its ostentatious intents, always anticipating its usurious children, the death of its parents. There is no anxiety in always anticipating what is already apparent, or so says the Holy Ghost of unpious 'i', his Trinity a tree, a leaf, and the infinite breeze. What source? What life? Only love -- but what only?