East of a little town and down out past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy there are two tobacco brown rivers that slit the soil and as they roll off into a backdrop of innumerable golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans there lies a treasured slice of triangulated land that sways rhythmically and sweet beneath the swarms of larks and teals and red breasted mergansers and they all funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle…
I’m the kind of person to whom feelings are more important than logic. I seek exhilaration. This means my walls are pretty thin and that I’m willing to take risks and that I subscribe to psychically relieving mantras that drum to unearthly beats.
Inside this inner bubble, the world floats by, bobbling.
Each passing day brings fresh new observation, insights, and explorations on the self.
At each stage of human existence we have achieved the impossible. Our deepest potential has always created a new tomorrow.
She don’t trust men who masquerade, men holier than thou, men who lead the pack. These men deceive. They are charlatans, these men without chaos.
Claire is misunderstood by all. She’s a black sheep, an outlaw, a high-heeled gunslinger.
Flow is a dance. It’s not surrender, but a willingness to be vulnerable. When flow happens, you are reaching a prolonged moment of perfection in which you are guided by something larger than logic.
Birds chirped a sinister tune as if they had a recollection of what this place means. Maybe they were evil birds, little demon Nazis’ whose empty souls never seeped outside the barbed wire enclosing the camp.