For you I will write in a way that is unfamiliar and discomfiting. Celebration brooks no judgment, else it's not celebration but appeasement. The Lord entered and the light was very clear and space itself was undone perfectly.
Yet we hurt each other, and apologize, and then we do it again. The fiction appears to write itself after five years away, which is a blessing. Trains arrive, trains leave, and time indeed goes on.
Your comma is my moment of mild conflict. Here on earth one really can't be taught anything. Multiplicity abounds.
On the other hand, watch what you say, because words shape our destinies. I dreamed of dandelions, I woke happy. He said almost casually that the impulse to see things as real and separated was causing a great deal of difficulty and so at last he was ready to consider again the metaphorical spiritual ladder.
For my part, it's in the forest, especially when it's dark, and it never leaves. The existence of the soul is just words! She agreed because lifetimes ago she'd written the same thing, making the present largely echoes.
One skips breakfast in order to get closer to Jonathan Edwards. This sentence is here because the next one asked politely. Do you love me and if you do are you willing to adjust your expectations of love?
Oh but our expectations passed a long time ago, didn't they? Ushered onward by you and your damaged hands and their splinters of pure light.
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