Oeuvre #1

Closed meditation sessions offer explanations from the inner depths of my brainchild. I have fostered the beginnings of something wonderful here. Here are the results of the daydream. I write in the lab, gladly exercising the gift of abstractness. The fact of blackness has a deep and profound grip on my life. I am the walker of memories, the builder of dreams, the author of prose, the naked man who stands fully clothed in clothes. I am the beautiful song of songs. I am an existential disciple of life experiences. I have sent love poems through the air. I have sent other poems to breathe for themselves. I am the brilliant mind. I have painted lilacs on pages and scripted magnificent things on the walls of books. There are lovely things to be imagined. Other things are most ugly, some most beautiful, mostly wonderful, mostly human. These fingers are singers. They compose songs. They compose art like Mozart. I compose smart...mentally gifted. These are the beginnings of smiles, bright like many moons. I can count my destiny on five hands, I have two. There are too many ideas to write down in a single session. My obsession is introspection. I know me better than I know myself. I am the conflicted, the addicted, the gifted. Excuse me, I don’t have tolerance. I have patience. Until we meet again, this shall be continued. I write in the lab, it never closes. My mind is always open 24/7. I stretch my back and crack my knuckles. I will be back before the next metaphor.