My story is a short novel of a drastically simple fairy tale holding onto the edge of the dark hole we all longingly gaze into, begging us to wag our finger and sit our own beautifully deformed tales, which we all hope holds the water for our salvation, the land for our footing and the air for our deep exhaltation to encompass as we forge right and left and through someone elses long diary, agonizing for faith to forget that which so anticipate to frost the clarity we convey, where others peer directly through, around and around, and never mumble but only a spit of their own plays from their mouths of babes, and regret the faith they laid down burning a circle of truth they obviously lit in their own unselfish selfishness when the wind came driving the ache from ear to ear, rattiling the call of vulnerability which continously denied; raged by the air, doused the waterfall and around the crop from the dark circle we all clung to but was simply a prayer for the aide from the imagination of perfection we read in my long phrased war of mind and heaven.
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