lol That may or may not be true but Gloominary, you can have no inkling at all as to how true it may be…since you do not know me at all…though I am in there somewhere.
But I think I know, we’re both druids, remember our/my tree worship and the swing, that bar of the last tango?
I haven’t been to my tree of the Secret Garden years ago guess time for a visit again.
As Always, Orb
Having a Boo Radley meets Francis Hodgson Burnett moment?
Apparently dropping keywords all over the place is AI’s way of doing a meet cute?
Who is that for, Meno/Orbie?
Then forget Tinder and start using ‘sugarmummy.com’ sugarmummy.com/ …and don’t forget my invitation to the wedding, will ya. ; )
A nice middle-ground is preferable, so a balanced character of balanced characteristics. If truth be told, overly-quirky needy smarmy types make me heave and wig me out. :-&
…but there’s someone for everyone, so even they’ll find love. [ 
]
Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.
Same. Every. Time.
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Head bobs to the beat *
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Smashes car door window again *
pours water on your head
I like Howard’s better.
Not quite. It’s another middle of the night can’t fathom things.
To start with the 7 capital sins, taken euphemistically if that’s the key word, if not eucharistically hanging between phonetic certainty and conflated uncertainty, as if, faith and fate could be said to come out of similar roots?
Could trees talk and communicate time’s drudgery to encompass druidry? It can but down in the hole everything relates by a wild stretch of the imagination, which has more of a feeling of as certainty to it.
But never mind back to the main stream, the stream into which one cannot put his foot into again, it’s a one time deal.
So here goes about transcendence in this case transsubstentiation.
Wine from water, or, blood to wine. Never that mind or That Mind, you/You.
This indeed is about sins , of omission/comisdion and the conversion of will to power to the will to love. How does little boy, a little confused boy man, does with idioms like this:
“What Does Profit a Man to gain the whole World or the hole world and loose his everlasting Soul?
How? The transcendence of Love’d staircase climes over so many many Julia’s is not reversible like, let’s say implicit in the representation that the portrait of Dorian grey suggest when the hidden portrait ages yet the ideal , made up heavily present grey, the shades drawn, they do something hideous, yet quite satiric, when on the rebound toward -downward trysts try to put unity dumpty back together so that the thin man can be satisfied, the pleasure withheld to experience the joys of pain.
The pain in the fruits of joy, so sweet but sour on recoil, the trigger quickness has done many a good man befelled, so sorrows the of Werther as Whitman listening to the heart of Delores Schwartz from the east side, who complained of the synch between the immigrant Hungarian high school students there out of jeolousy perhaps.
It was heart crane that longed for home the last time looking out over the Brooklyn bridge, or, plunging working eight to five down the shafts of elevators down toward another resting night.
Where do they go when they loose the love of meaning, or try quickly before the school bell rings, to recover that opposing it, the meaning of love?
That power to love has been certainly be inversed by the power to will, further twisted into the will to overpower, leaving the little boy fated to carry that load which perpetually falls down from the height of the precipice. Ear to the very top.
Doomsdayers,doomsayers, like can not fathom what goes when desperados embrace an old oak tree, and pour all their emotions into it, confessing their love for it for bearing time’s travails when in fact, at that very instance, now, they commute it’s eternal all consuming stillness, that some early spring or late autumn whisper through their leaves carried by this breeze shaking their thin , arterial almost transparent skin off their brave boughs, maybe screaming of the sadness that their immobility and anguish arm’s terrors can inspire.
They are sawed down of course after a while, and leaving a terrain of emptiness around them, the lucky ones earlier born when images did imagination form, into literal songs of joy, as they greyed along side’s autumn’s farewell as grey smoke swirling out of chimney rooftops scented the darkening azure of beclouded sky, the scent of burned hay, and far off many little children their faint tiny voices far away , into same wind the future,
All the little boys wait for that what came before and what to expect, and now they still, feel,as though trying to apprehend, their little faun like ears, as if they suddenly want to become like dr. Spock, or receive messages, through miracles they certainly want to believe as a better option, because one they gone; well,
