subterfuge is unspoken

Another nonsensical loss to the sophistry of my malignant romance. There is this indignant inlay of impressions into ideas, or ideas into ideals. Either way, I cannot seem to sip the shoreline of this undercurrent of (mis)understanding. I keep missing it and masking it as that turn that followed that take, that tocktact of some countdown I can't quite quip for user-friendly functions. Instead, I work against gravity and present to the court my case on this confusion of corporeal and reason. When there are no boundaries how can the light break in and inset your way? If reason pares away the imperial ways of empirical ennui, why sense the senses sending me into the contemplative quandary of how I fall short yet again? These As and Bs are vultures to my face value and I think faster than feel to notice no one knows the nows of proper opportunity.

So if you were to ask, I would confess that you don't exist in my exit because the boxes are filled with my own imagination of some things I wish I could have as their face value. For the mistake was met at that onset when I said romance. My vernacular is not approachable to those ways you find such normalcy in, rather I reinvent those rituals of which I was nothing but a pawn. The noun, you ask, is nothing to fear because it is less singular than the lone eye. But it's lonely here, missing again that chance to change such chicanery.