My exhausted mind tires of it seeping in like smoke blocked from a flue too stubborn to open, steadily flowing into a room’s warmth, causing a cloud of gray, unbreathable. A preconceived notion not so massive that the stars would struggle to find room for hanging in the sky. But one with a heart pumping faster than ordinary that could possibly trigger a hint of hullabaloo. Whatever placement of the language, its implication doesn’t waver.
Thus, as I ponder this conundrum, I imagine that perhaps this notion is cloaked in the familiar wardrobe of speculation, hovering in the space between the lines just as F-A-C-E rests on the treble clef. Not a notion I care to keep company with, even in a brightly painted parlor of pastel yellows, sipping tea and indulging in an assortment of delicious pastries. Most likely, the safest conclusion would be to let it lie, tamp it down, express who is in control…
assuming the situation will faithfully eventuate to be as simple as bread and butter.
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