What ever shall I do? This horrid beauty tears at my consciousness and captivates my senses. This feeling of the past is haunting the present and all I want is to get away, if it wasn’t for my desire to stay and revel in the exuberantly hopeful sadness in the wake of far previous joys and premature exhilarations.
Whatever shall I do? The Origin plays with the composition of my sanity by achieving nothing of the sort. I hope that it will hear my internal pleas for a future return to the past, though I am certain it will not. Why would it, if it has already ratified an argument of the exact opposite of mine which remains yet unspoken? No, indeed The Origin has no obligations to me any longer, since those same obligations were abolished long ago. Too long ago. Far too long ago to warrant these circumstances with respects to any and all logic and sense of the world. The Origin acknowledges my presence narrowly enough to toss my imagination into childish fantasies, and as for the rest of the time that I am in the presence of The Origin, it simply ignores me, as if thrusting my countenance into a brick wall of sludgy mud.
Whatever shall I do? The Origin’s angelic beauty is drawing me into its harrowing embrace. The Origin appears to be soft and smooth and pleasant to hold, and indeed it was. Was in past times, but now...now it retains the same gorgeous, enticing appearance, but has gained invisible spikes and spines of faithlessness, doubt, and, apparently, absence of memory. Or rather, wishes of absence. I cannot lie however, I too wish for the absence of memories. Memories, at least, of the almost vain happiness that was once shared. Alas, all cases of vain happiness in the world are condemned to a hopeless failure, and so I am forcibly content with the status quo. I would rather this hopeless paradox than another incomplete case of vain happiness, and probably this again anyway. And yet I again ask: Whatever shall I do?
Whatever shall I do? The Origin plays with the composition of my sanity by achieving nothing of the sort. I hope that it will hear my internal pleas for a future return to the past, though I am certain it will not. Why would it, if it has already ratified an argument of the exact opposite of mine which remains yet unspoken? No, indeed The Origin has no obligations to me any longer, since those same obligations were abolished long ago. Too long ago. Far too long ago to warrant these circumstances with respects to any and all logic and sense of the world. The Origin acknowledges my presence narrowly enough to toss my imagination into childish fantasies, and as for the rest of the time that I am in the presence of The Origin, it simply ignores me, as if thrusting my countenance into a brick wall of sludgy mud.
Whatever shall I do? The Origin’s angelic beauty is drawing me into its harrowing embrace. The Origin appears to be soft and smooth and pleasant to hold, and indeed it was. Was in past times, but now...now it retains the same gorgeous, enticing appearance, but has gained invisible spikes and spines of faithlessness, doubt, and, apparently, absence of memory. Or rather, wishes of absence. I cannot lie however, I too wish for the absence of memories. Memories, at least, of the almost vain happiness that was once shared. Alas, all cases of vain happiness in the world are condemned to a hopeless failure, and so I am forcibly content with the status quo. I would rather this hopeless paradox than another incomplete case of vain happiness, and probably this again anyway. And yet I again ask: Whatever shall I do?
alibi
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