Is there any truth to it
Blessed be the day. And the night can be it. In the night it is revealed. The day is over it. The truth is being it right now. And then they said it. Over their soup. The curtain went up and it was understood. What is going to be the point today. There is never anything but this. And this.
There were fine sentiments. So fine. Feelings were had. And felt. And is it any of it going anywhere. If it is liked then it exists. If you are looking for it you are lost. If it is said then it is lived and forgotten. Again and again. In the side notes. There are margins and somebody lives in there. It will make them special and refused.
At night he came alive. Everything felt better. Without sentiments. Fabricated and sublime and out of time and not remembered and done. Like it mattered didn’t matter. Like a picture wasn’t taken. And there. Always there was there to be it. And listened.
When bedtime came he didn’t want to go. Of course. That was not a death. If there was a story to be told alright. Then it could be playing. As long as there was playing. And song. Before long. They were there and they said it. It was understood that reading was a part of it. And a war. Some sort of battle anyway. With righteous victors. And no spoils as such. Just the reputation and the right set rightness of it all. As it should be. There will always be contenders and they’ll always be defeated as they should be. Right. Just like any champion.
No work was not it. It was not it. It was not it work. Working wasn’t it. It was not it work. It was not. It was not work. It was not working work. It was always not it work. Working was not it. Working was not work. It was not it. It was working when it wasn’t it working work. It was all the same to him. Words working overtime. And then the sky opened up.
It was just a way of saying it. And then.
They can be in it.