The girl who knew only of one such way. The specific way to outskirt the inner reaches of her mightily mixed-up imagination of many. This had to have been occurring for so very inordinately long and specifically unkind a time as she could have ever attempted to gather the cusp of her borrowed breath. Pandemonium, absolute and utter penetrating chaos twisted disdainfully midst discomfort in numbers – the beautiful behavings, wraparound environs, etch-a-sketch places of vivid memory-makings till encapsulated descriptively wherein – she so dearly does wish at belonging to an unbroken, unswollen piece of her co-existing self again. Dutifully tailoring themselves all of the way off – agonized to the tether of the screaming, scheming touch of a genetic bombardment fusillade of sullen, sordid sorts – and failing, failing…
Harder than that, actually. At giving the perfectly imperfect person back. The one serenely set life that she so very pristinely, keenly, dreamt about and for so very inordinately long a superimposed existence, treacherous insistence, that it now hurts her like a frozen lake put upon sprinting hot trinkets of fire which swell and boil to bother the beast who sits. At the foot of heated hell. To dispel his favourite nature is to simply feel anything other than…complete vitriol aside manky-handed environment. Yes, it might be nice enough for just such a day on earth, sincerely yours, Eleanor
Still expressively insists…
Upon bountifully bolstering her very own wonderful weaponry which resolutely resounds at the baseline of her visibly insolvent soul – wherein lonely ghosts of wartorn, word-sworn poets of plagiarised and playful forgiveness will painstakingly proceed… At infamously pushing themselves barbwired and bare-naked against… the whispering, well-wishing shadows at the shape of the fondly lit scripture… the mix of desirous ineptitude placed solely aside unforgettable, unmatched bouts of bewildered brilliance.
And her apt nature has been meaning to let itself see something when nothing amounted to absolutely everything sacrilege. Something which has been begging, begging, begging for itself, its troubadour friends, for bouts of angularly wraparound enhancement both craftily guided, constantly cradled by ear-aching levels of supernatural redevelopment. And the swelling season swelters midst the swollen-faced surface of the sinking, shrinking circumference of ‘The Merriment Dance’ catches unfathomable kinds of worshipping kite, finally.
Earnestly, damn right descriptively better than any other creator out there… Till suddenly, and all that ever really mattered anymore was for her body to magically, maniacally manage at turning. The burning hot surface of the sweet delirium-kissed sun further away from… The bleeding hot reactive reaches of its very own disappointed, disheveled self.
When that enlarged, decidedly pocksparked face of many an unasked for mistake, many a gloriously over-exaggerated, decidedly derogative mishap altogether gathers and neatly swims. At the bleed of the singular grain – till it all starts to taste… Like something rather real again. Something which tastes quite like her far-reaching fondness for a ten thousandth hour put upon reimbursed earth, pl-ease…
The arthritic artist – when to feel something that appears mysteriously sincere was all that any one pulsating person could have ever truly needed. Girl, world, and breath to feel it all again and for one first time electrified.