They say it must be like a sunshine; to win me over through the root of my pretensions then say it to me as though it was the only thought in the world.
They say it must be; like the weather, the weather will be fine but without you nor myself there will never be a strand of what is going on to me against myself.
They say it must be the slowness of the thought; the thought that requires thorough seriousness to cut me through then follow me through the light.
They say it must be like sorrow; to fall hopelessly in place as though it were the only causer of my own grief, befriended at the hour of sudden recourse.
They say it must be like truth; to know that whether we like the tone of monotony or not, than ever before, that we shall always strive for what is right, and not see the thoughtfulness that provokes creatures, but that it will pass by,
They say it must be like a book; the only comparison in the world wise enough to estrange worlds with the divisions it undertook, and the undertaken will always mask the escape of it,
They say it must be what is hidden within us; since what is hidden within us is always our fever, and the hunger in our souls provide the midst of the seasons in blank misery.
They say it is misery itself; the own vagueness of sorrow unfelt before never to be recounted as much ever again in the pits of your palm.
They say it is happiness itself; the only idea in the world present to always include you in the pitying intervals of your decision, which is always at a greater fault towards the makers of the world.
Who is at the greatest? Who is at the most? They say it will always be us; yet for us, is not us, but amongst us, it will be for us. That said.
