Sometimes, you just get caught up in the romanticism of a scene. A faint aching glow breaking through three inches of glass that's seen better days. The resulting radiance of a well-worn cardigan matched to a loosely tied scarf, solid enough to keep out the pervasive heat of an unusually warm April day, but not too thick as to suffocate the tender shoulders it rests upon. Golden locks, fingertips scarcely ever appreciated, eyes--artistically languid--weakly pulled to the side, and a face tilted towards a window to the sea--and just like the scenery, it is young and weary.
Juxtapositions and other oddities are paired with the key to Logic's iron, freedom from transcendence, that painful immaterial transition. If this is existence, let me embrace everything.
No comments:
Post a Comment