cherryline sabrina

There is a fire living in its place and my face has suffused it with a little blur of crystal. I like the splinters of imaginary snow that could shape the emotions of my skin into an exuding innocence of an urchin's rune. I'm meant to be happy in the confines of solitude. For me to live with it is a norm a conformity to which is one such nature of my being. What began as an utter weakness now thrusts to the glorious peak. I see that I can't blame my irresponsibility on account of weak appetite. Everybody pulls away from here where there can only be freaks and the attitude..freakish. It's cold to have had competence at its flaccid amount. The grave is in the knowing that blossoms are fictitious for the kind of living recognized under no ordinary treatment. One for this consumes to his spatial collection the world that is plain and with no parallel. Grieved by the wounds that form without sound intent, just the will of gale and imbalance. Eating yet choking even more the feed that the glands for sanity adapt the state of being swollen and the mallady then is the twist of its molding. A piece of irony chunked from the wall of sanguinity, is to such mind phantasmagoric. Not to geld with maudlin contemplation any more. Having the gridlock of misreckoning gnawed to furtherance of all these opting nerves. For such process to epitomize itself rightly as toward a compos mentis foundation, the gull has to witness his awakening in the murk of impairment he ought to counterfad. Or to modify his maladaptive insight by rioting the conflict back to itself, fulminating for a turn with flair. But 'warn, these are never a micron far from a nyctophobic schizoid's lament with a meaning that is drifting across childlike optimism to be ebullient for free. Like when the banner is locked inside, unwaved, and still seeking the right passion and time. Here's one whose parts of rationality are joint with the soils of fluster taking to writhe in the qualms of that tad whose frolic rests on a toy plane in an afternoon of lethargy. A sickening perfection in retrieval every other moment of truth to the fever pitch of psychedelic goad. As if Tolstoy's rhetoric meets Axl Rose's November Rain in a temperate midnight when Keats suddenly unearths a limerick as he coils his arms about a pillow like eternity seems to matter. It's stern finding out how to be blameless and waiting to be the one who meanders with stable rhapsody. Nothing. Not even phenomenal therapy of any science would do to fix the elegy or hamper on its sturdy flow. A demented calculation culminating to many different phases of its breed to one's concern used to be fairly infectious, now it steers a more frowning stint. The need there is for breaking off with this substantiality to filter the soot which may befoul even a flash of reverie. How? Weakness that dwells in full awareness of oneself must be laid a sight of after others' insipid toil. Ignite to sallow impression the acquired causations of glee and soak in the belief that dissociation authenticates rollicking breath. It shall serve a certain degree of catapulting the freedom of wonder, forbearing those enough said and allowing another set of verbs to be gone with.Chances go by millions while the blood is warm. The absconding mind across the voltage of synapse has the time of the world to dilute whenever possible..the sweat of mutation. There to ascertain the sanctity of defilement within doubt that has long been possessing wilderness. Of persistence, the signs are yielding steadily. Try to chart my course and you'll see--I look like the way I feel. Loving instead of purging the impact of madness. I envy some who smile with a vivid glee in expressing the simplicity of joy that touches me at depth however hard it is to lay hold on scarce occasions of ease. For spirit is designed to tramp along blissful awareness--imaginative of paradise where not a wisp of hope escapes. Understanding that a wimp who is passionate for getting by the scourge of reality..is one who strikes through and through.