Catatonic repose affect flat and bare thoughts locked in mid-battle weaving chaos enough to wear. Halcyon days under visions of winter sun so bright, sitting with view turned in reflecting fiercely in that light. Mindfulness resides focuses on action, body, and soul, a smile branches out as new knowledge chases out the cold.
Wrap me in the mysteries of your dreams, oh, sweet one with your eyes of green, where the magic pools and smiles go to dip beneath that inner glow. Wash us deserving in the shadows of your pain where the struggle is real, no longer a game and all that once was becomes real again.
“Tom, there’s no way that they can take another round. See that ocular leakage, way over tolerance.”
“Yeah, yeah I know Bill. I can hear too can’t I? Ancestral recall or personal identification with Canis lupus do you think?”
“No family resemblance but that baying is putting my skin on edge regardless. How you want to do this? We’ll get some sympathy views if we drag it out—personal favorite of mine I’ll have you know since this is our first time working together—might even get a couple more weeks out of the budget. Holds a lot of risk with this pair though from what we’ve seen and neither of us wants to explain why we’re carting off a pair of body bags.”
“Fair point. How would you feel about a hybrid? Start off slow but keep an eye on a drop dead date where it all crescendos again and forces a clean cut. Watched Geoff do something similar once. Takes finesse, as always, but it can be done.”
“I’m game, closeouts are your arena anyways from what I hear, I’m better at the fluff and the early game. Just let me know the confidence and insecurity tables you want to use before we start so I can keep things on track.”
“Retro-consideration and empathetic quotients are going to be key factors as well. Can you send Jim to let psych know that we will need their numbers first. Future orientation has always been lacking in 5KY3 and like you said, we don’t want any b-bags.”
Obscenity cavern, plastered with fucks, gives rise to the new age raised to bow low keep your head down, duck, tuck and roll. Whispered in stories, like the day it last rained, awash is the removal of freedom from failure, honesty and blame. Turncoats and bastards (that’s what they cry) mirrors twisted and cracking impossibly contorting as futility sighs. At long last there is sense, (though it echoes too loud) in the canyons of absence where each of the dead is everlastingly proud.