Large Pink Towelette, Sanctioning the Room

This night I've discovered much, concluding some inquiries in my mind while breathing life into a plethora of fresh, uneasy questions. As history repeats itself, I find date and time to be more and more accurate. As far and shy as our misguided, unspoken hard feelings fly, the paradoxical misfortune of our wishful thinking going into motion has already backtracked us. Thus far in this sentiment, I fear my intent is lost and clouded. I fear every day I recklessly seized as my own, without full prospect of your careful delicacy. Amok in these misty thought bubbles, I found a resolve in a certain greeting, just as thoughtless. How terrible I must seem, to the reality outside of my skin; I condemn my surroundings without much wonder as to what shape I leave them lay. If I've dropped too much obligation before, for the sake of where we stand, I'll quit nothing again-- I'd quit any procedure for the aforementioned reconciliation of your attic dreams. My one truth never lost, is not the illusions I cling to, but my aura that sparked inside me and not once yet stopped fuming, this desire undenied, unbegotten by the many. When pleasure lies solely in universal gain, my unflagged ship is sunk before sail. The only testament I clutch now is that same very blister that bore the rejoicing I recently claimed. The power to host the few, eavesdrop the floodgates that rest hardy: to focus on the success, hopeful ambitions, means not the certainty of its taking place. Let us merely wish for uprising betterment, taking form.