Is the glimpse of a human life wasted upon thoughts all cosmic and forlorn? Would the service of its own sensation be suited more satisfactory with gratification that fades near as soon as it arrives?
Monday Evening Thoughts: 7.20.26
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.
The Veracious Facade 