My corporal body is waning but my resolve is strongish. Each of the last three days, separated by commas, I've denied the naturalish cycle of sleep. Every surface is a billowy cloud fit to die on.
The horizons are more artistic. Each branch and sky its own intricate or timeless composition. Each parking lot a palate of hewn colors.
Today I walk wavering in a world free of consciousness, the universe is translucent. Conception is limitless without a body and mind to dwell on. I compose and comprise the very round earth.
The brick road I stumble on is a bridge over breezy bedrock. The grass is a comfortable illusion. The bird a beautiful metaphor.
Soothed. All is soothing. I am the quintessential soothed.
Bombs are at peace. The loudest of the hungry souls are inaudible to my stony expression. A ranger impervious to noise, gravity, and warmth.
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