I found this abandoned postcard that was unreasonably incomplete, and I think it's only because loaded words without literal expression did nothing for two people. I used to call it a "practice of honesty" because my gift of words to you was somehow understood but I knew that we were just dancing afraid to make the boldest swinging of steps that would proceed into emotional turmoil. There's a pattern that never came and went. It remained and I have not the slightest idea why. Within me it's been soundless, but I now have a vicious hunger for a nameless need. You have no idea how I carried them inside me, like a true disease that managed to make its chioces for me, other than my voluntary self.
The more soothed I am inside your walls, I forget about my self existing outside and becoming a favored vision that isn't to be determined by anyone. My waves keep swinging and swinging beneath your light and this is also why self neglection as a subject has been spurring and gotten me sick. It's the sensation of walking the world next to someone so early. I suppose his mind is some sort of sanctuary where my flaws and precise traces of motion dissolve and it's really just me, little-eyed staring into my own space. He obeys his own conscious and unfortunately his products are what got me whistling the same tune. I've been taught a lot of what's made me, a lot of what embodies the good and loving person. But I've left out what's been needed the most from such a careless, fearful creature, which is largest, the monumental establishment of identity. It involves all the craftsmanship taken from anything and I'd like to come back with a straighter back and nicer presence.
I'm never going to direct my guilty sight to someone for scraps representing traits.