Hyoo-man, I worship the Second act by words of mouth.
And I wouldn’t have aimed, from the outset, at being born poor of Myself, the first mask on my face. Not having experienced the true dovetailing, the sight of the eye beginning to blossom under the glance smouldering in my eyelashes. I whisper as one loves with the palms of their lovers, my tongue is the skin of the soul; my spirit utters all kinds of words. Strike up a conversation, as a strange occurrence, and you shall see the Soul in buff. I take the Second number in my heart. Of too much sky, a bird crouches in its soar.
This wish only – of rushing along, resembles Us; kind-man, my being comes to life by twos.