Feeling somewhat rejuvenated this morning.

Back on the bike, cycling my way through the wind, through the air, along the paths of which I am allowed to cycle.
I like the challenge, but sometimes I don’t accept the challenge if it’s not on the bent notion of honour.

I could see through something if I really wanted to, but this dude’s gotta zoom.

Zoom away toward anything tomorrow, as long as the path stays that way.

I could zoom through the music, the song and toward something else that lets me carry my way toward an infinite sighing.

An infinity of sighs beckons the thaw from the marmot’s throat.

If it had a thorax, then I’d be none the wiser, as they say.

But who are they? Are they the people who sigh infinitely whilst making sure that whatever it is that is to be is not to be unless the being is unbecoming and unknowing whilst throwing a fit of torturous denial?

Are these event the questions of the day that we need to face in order to embrace a race of the face?

Could I really say that if the walls were screaming honey from their mouths, that if peeling pendulums ponder propositions on the pomegranate pyramids of positioning, that that would be the truth of which we all desire, but cannot face?

There is no face, really. this is all something to induce the face. The face must be induced and if there is a tooth with truth then there is a fire in the desire of the rhyming scheme of which I shall feel keen, about.

But then again, if I had to be out and about I’m sure that looking at a concrete that traces pathways in the dirt of which falls onto it over time and gradually stains the image, despite the attempts pf the rain to wash it all away toward something else that cannot take foothold on my being, but who knows, really?

All we can really do is follow that which is under our nose. So long as we keep on going, then I’m sure that if there is a day to embrace and the stars falling from within our grasps, then surely we can look upon ourselves and see that all we are doing is gnashing and clawing and screaming for a new release that we can focus on for a small amount of time whilst we look for more information to absorb.

More information that we shall ever know, fleeting in the distance for the patience has been lost on the patients and they need their release sooner rather than later.

It’s all instantaneous, really, but who knows how much of it really is. There is no measure to it, other than the relative desire to find a relative desire and some form of speed toward a destination that cannot be felt but smelt and embraced along the race as we race toward a galloping ocean of clustered desire.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:54:41

I should write some poetry once more.
Despite inability, I still should I think.

Also, a quick plug:

Stephellaneous has returned.

That is all.

Written at work.