As A Life Flows
By Corpus Cantopen
So when in tears The love of years Is wasted like the snow, And the fine fibrils of its life By the rude wrong of instant strife Are broken at a blow Within the heart [The Forest Reverie, Edgar Allan Poe]
The stories are mostly from the second half of the unknown, comprising an illustrated description of its life as the stories are probably a collection of milieus as experienced at worst. I would not say that this comes at a cost in many subtleties, but how to be resilient in survival is another question that requires no compromise.
Hope is never required for any particular choice. Instead of losing hope many times and struggling to see that your life is another doom to be fixed. Trust is a serious issue to put in another hands. The sun is just coming with a different cloud of darkness as the hope from another broken heart at the very last moment.
It’s just too crazy when my soul builds up from love and connection. A simple way showed up at life's giving, but also losing. I'm falling from a mountain that was so beautiful for unknown reasons. Until I find myself desperate and lost, not free of all the dreams I never made.
The feelings were down to a deep truth that had been written on my heart boldly for a great solitude. It is made to resonate within my soul, so unbecoming. I have lost on every point. No smile in every way but entering a cold river as my blood is to be cherished within my great loneliness now.
Now, it has totaled over passionately between the difference and the distance. I might illustrate this in a reflection of this corpus closely through a personal diary entry on my body anatomy. For any reason, no one is really willing to wait for their own death. I would be scattered into pieces if I believed it.
Communication adds another layer of complication to how human minds work; whether it's as a mutual respect stuck at a passion without comprehensiveness, we lose peace. Misery is rewarded with a kind of bizarre becoming.
O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm: Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. [The Sick Rose, William Blake]
I promised you eternity from my sorrow in the places that sow the lantern of understanding. No more hiding in the emptiest of the fields where the largest battles are fought by despair. A fool's feast staring at the apocalypse in life at the darkest sadness in all known souls over civilization.