Exploiting routine is not entrapment; try harder: a choice on the scale between hurt and scared, the easy and boring scale— it looks the same. The joy of being seen can feel like a kiss, a flush and a pale saving the face. Given, known and shown: all
reveals exist in the waiting, or meant equally across time if the word is [ ]erve. It’s an invitation to the ball; options include a glass slipper; Her diss lives in our souls rent-free. So Rachel’s son views you with shade; tally and watch what’s won: embers and cobs. Stalks are barest in spring; donate the will, we’re gnawing on a wing.
Your brothers can be irresistibly sympathetic, that’s the collateral of life. The life of othering is guerre and shame is the rest—I down a chablis. Chaos is math—We pop an Adderall— justice is not. If you try to compare
constantly, there will be no time left for the upkeep of society: in food nophilos. As hereafter and before C-4, when in doubt; kindness to distill removing Faith from succor. To be lewd, empathy is a sinew or a skill. Sometimes spite is love and so deservèd; grace inside a famine is how we’re fed.
If we undo mending, it is only passively. Seven years lean is careless following seven years hale. This dare says, “These are the gaps. Yum: They’re rich in bonely goodness.” I carry my carry my soy on the left, carry my grain on the right. He is all philosophies between “a hurt dog will holler” and “even fake friends will feed them.”
Mental gymnastics are a worthless skill, mostly between the choosing and the call. Ontologies said: nihilism anthem, but some are balls, or loaves, or spells, or theft; assuming Newton, assuming balance: Investor asks Teller for Her two cents.
Now you or I might feel just a wee bit nonplussed if a small dragon breathing fire were to disturb our repose in such a place, but Algy was not the least bit surprised, for he knew that it was St. George’s Day, and he had always made a point of seeking out dragons on this day in order to befriend them.
For a moment, however, it looked as though this particular dragon might not be aware of Algy’s altruistic record, and Algy hesitated, wondering whether discretion would not be the better part of valour in this case: preparing to fly, he rapidly assessed the merits of a prompt retreat to another spot, from which he could assure the dragon of his best intentions at a safe distance. But fluffy birds are generally endowed with rather more valour than discretion - and Algy was mindful of the fact that most dragons can fly faster than birds - so he decided to hold his ground and greet the dragon with a Shakespearean sonnet, reminding it that it was not only St. George’s Day but also the great Bard’s birthday. Fortunately, this seemed to meet with the dragon’s approval, and it turned tail and left Algy safely on his ledge, chuckling with relief…
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
[Algy hopes that it is not necessary to tell you what he is quoting today ]
It was St. George’s Day again - a day on which Algy has always made a point of seeking out dragons to befriend.
However, with his own special dragon friend visiting him at home in the wild west Highlands of Scotland, Algy was reluctant to go out in search of other dragons: he guessed that the little green dragon might very possibly take offence. So instead they reminisced about their very first encounter, exactly one year ago today in faraway Patadragonia, when Algy had endeavoured to placate the fire-breathing creature with Shakespeare’s famous sonnet.
What if there existed no other language on earth except something deeply symbolic: a handshake, a hug, a kiss. The sheer capacity of the human body to express by itself, be it through the eyes or by the hands is simply amazing. A touch could be more healing than any other medicine discovered till date. And don’t ask me what wonders those lips could do if they were to just widen a bit with a hearty smile, enough to bring all the heavenly bliss. Get your body involved, tongue is not the crown of expression, it’s merely a medium resorted in the last phase. Otherwise, your entire being is more than enough to express beautifully by itself - this body, in which you reside, is the perfect symbolic epitome of what your soul is truly made of…
