Some kinds of colour are deeper than they appear. If you would separate what you see you could make the files of the form make a line into the work.
Oh, rote! This foul sublimation; a sliding foot, a missed date, and perhaps the most disenchanting of all: these social programs that would never be broken! Ah, but is it more correct to pine for the miserable condition or simply to live as a new standard sets itself based on where and what I have been rather than who I am or where I am going? A frozen hand bends heavy the fire of passion as pen becomes cold red and ink not ink, but blood wrought hard and wet from long buried wounds.
It would be just too easy to conform. So where then lies the ease of living that would tug the pieces from this puzzle and frame the shadows of the ache for [unreadable]. Pray to the gods that you owe. Make the world what it would be of the hell on earth you've made.
Shadow the form of shadow, stretch deep the blade you make and sink into. Follow what you think you know and shake the plate free from angst.
Some patterns have become inescapable. Just when you think the paranoia has left you may find that it still lurks just beneath the surface. It gathers strength like some scorned and wounded beast, fostering the anger and fury known from estrangement. Then, as a storm striking the glass calm of a dolorous sea—without warning the chaotic ripples sent out so many months hence return with tsunamic fury.