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In Our Own Glyph

Once upon a time...

I believed for awhile, that understanding of mortal- was near infinite. That we couldn't quite stripe through and create our own. That in a world made of infinitive spectrum and blissful psyche, our own love could only be a mere byproduct of our own spaces.

But near we go very far and vast, our girth and philosophy are near the undercover- only the keen eye might grasp. But to her ebb and flow we find sheer nature, within all of ourselves; man and woman- child to be and creator.  Within our own bliss we find the very sub-natural and equally amused conversations. Our own thoughts require not that we pay minute attention- but that we allow for our inner water droplets, the massive waters that weigh tons within us. Not to recourse but to provide a need so worthy. Haven't we undoubted our intention and grasped the most fleeting memories we could find?

Was that within and without or a wandering and initiative that doubly stacked each other.  We can not spare for the language if we regret to climb it's very limb. Be not younger and stronger- but lay in your own joyous relaxation, drink from my tea as I arrange you so driven.

Hypo-
Re-
Anti-
Non-
Plus and willful are all you need this day.

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