Fill a paper with a story, maybe not a story though. The words are just arranged so tha tthe perception is that of a tale of no cities- just me. My feelings- not actually- about them, rather, and their effects on me. But what effects can affect? All. The love fills my body and lifts my soul, onward and outgoing, makes me a whole. I want to reach out, make joy upon others, treat the whole world as if they're my brothers. Despite the poor record of my thoughts coming as fruit, the style in which they are conveyed is sloppy at best and at worst. As if another language could be drawn from my letters written- could they be alien or commonly strange? It is my life contained with all the same characteristics, turns, shortcuts, and emphasis. Concrete secretion displays no lie. What if the shape of the paper is a habitat where I'd prefer to live? I've found my niche deep within a shape- not form. Two dimentions, at least. Finite infinity subsumed finally. The words in said infinity lie on the paper and in a train of though speeding onwards, not slowing or showing signs of stopping. Topping it off. What is it? The words pierce the paper into space- inner space. Celestial space is for planets and stars torn with battle scars. The way they sit waiting to be read. The thin blue bench, ever so strong, never gives in to the weight. I wish to posess such power and prowess; to be read so dilligently; to be understood on a level that thoughts can't even think; comprehensions won't even understand. If only I were words that make up a story to be digested. Take me in. Apply me to life. Share me with friends. Keep me on a shelf. Let me collect dust- but not too much. I won't succumb to 451, I promise. Take me down later. Enjoy me just like before.
What more could I ask for?