She doesn’t care about the impression. Even my impression of her sight of me.
Seems unreachable. Incredible.
And I love them all. Each in some way.
These working. Unstoppable hands. Minds. I’m something worth just as they are, but I’m only reaching my level among them, in our own hall of fame. Demigods of the uncertain. A pantheon of humanly.
Today I first hear the true beginning. The prelude of “Wicked Blood”. Was struck by lightning right than. Still am. For years I’ve loved and finally have revealed the perfect part. The one setting emotion potion.
Yesterday by chance I grabbed a book I’ve sent “somewhere” a year or more ago.
All the time I get fascinated how universe perfectly knows when to reveal things. Or help me get something right.
The book (about psychoanalysis) came out to be more helpful than any article dedicated to this topic.