You cannot see out and they cannot see in. Until the sliver of light is sliced, favoring the inner's escape. The inner feebling in fear to view the what apart from the why. Those outside want in, at least to know what's there. And then? Binge viewing silence from either side.
Given living in the garden, I cannot explain you, and yet here you are. Is there a clinic or an adage that would help me mine elastic settled matter? I prompt, you prompt, she pre-empts mercy from the cowlick nudging lintel versus challenge cup. Prescience conks me on the head. I Warsaw through. I shield my net with ivy. Promise me a body of knowledge you'll deliver uncontested while on call.
The body keeps us artificially indistinct. For a moment I forget that I am not you. Beginning with the way the eyes upon you change your skin. I watch your skin, the liquid in your eyes, the softness you allow around you. I follow my own limbs, your limbs, the motion as you flex and keepsake how intention melds with what is felt and seen. A field of mercy spontaneously appears. I resist the urge to sever history from what appears to mean the quiet and revealing now.
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