slips my words' soul on writings, too terrified not getting sickened, or as the preventive bodily cure in any random premise could it be ✳ in any random premise could it be is for honorin' myself for what i am, in everything i live, see, and feel... – like whoever tactful human does it ✳ if a tactful human does it nonnative, as me, who uses a wishful zeal's ink and the magic crayon which pivots dream's fire to which i belong, it's okay ✳ dream's fire to which i belong, it's okay to may have some fake or loud reason, to may soothe or invigorate, or alike... to be like an inviting dance or music ✳ like an inviting dance or music, i write today... (not as you know its meaning) but to explore again your kimosabè role, – my naif, do I run thru your nerves still‽

Hey You... — I don't love you. I only fell in love with your words painted and spread on me by your subtle mind talented to make me feel amazingly, as if I am a prayer, invoked and implored by all your idols to all of mine... Hey... — you you you ... the one that's chasing lights, — I don't love you. I don't love you exactly as i was supposed to do, — credibly, rightfully, honestly, but rather like a candy cocooned into the midnight sun thru your smartly graphical reflection able to make me look fell [in love] when in fact, i was as i'm still, — deep into you