There is wonder about my mind on whether the pondering of point is a dying breed of intellect. Perhaps, it was a defect to begin with. All life that we know aside ourselves never seems to worry about why it is anything is or will be. Just us, simple little simians plagued with the itch…
Monday Evening Thoughts: 7.13.26
Whether wished or woeful, the words still seem to will their way. To me, or through me- to you, whoever, wherever you are. But the clouds of my own sentience seem to shroud what should be said. If anything even should.
Monday Evening Thoughts: 7.6.26
Even the fullest of lifetimes can only hold so much. Maybe that’s the trick about the whole thing. A singular existence can only contain so many multitudes, no matter the vastness that might otherwise appear to be.
The Veracious Facade 