Seeming like pain, some ghosts, horrible ideas about the pasts. The over-under of my mind is grave shifts of the weird. These are dramatic phases of regretting the door swing to my death.
I must search for the golden hue. From within the clue is lightening. The tragedy is half the beaten. Why clasp my medal in my heart for being the broken one.
So the moon and wind and spaces in time, where sitting, sleeping, the whites roll. Goal or no goal at least no jails. Free like mist that travels around in circles. I wish you were with me in this rememberence of reasons.