irene j

And the next day, I can no longer control the instinct that enters the subtletiest of my being.

For me, the instinct is an *********** perfection, while mine removes the expression of a conscious imperfection.

So the impulse I take away from building is the obsequious that drives me to the army.

My contact with matter is lost and leaves me in an activity of glories.

This is my life, see?