Tangent Turbulance
I sung a spoony song to resound through my house; it came back to me and returned with three remorseful stanzas of love.
Masturbation isn't an act of desperation; it is merely self-sufficiency.
Do you think pieces of paper are manufactured with the explicit knowledge of what will be scratched on them?
I once saw a small songbird riding on a cat. When I inquired to how it had earned such a privilege, The Cat cleared its throat to tell a story while The Songbird tucked its head into its prismatic wing. On a cloudy night, The Cat began, The Songbird left his seclusive nest, mate and ovums to find supplies to fix a spontaneous hole. He labored to find the strongest sticks and made no haste. But by the time he had come back his nest was empty. In his absence, his dwelling had been attack by a predator and his entire family slain. His helpmate's distinctive feathers laid scattered underneath dispersed egg fragments. And The Cat had laid witness to the last chaotic moments. Ever since that night, The Songbird was filled with such grief that he could no longer sing cheerfully, or at all, as he had before. And his spirit was so low that he could no longer soar high in the sky, as he had before.
After I heard that story, I couldn't sing for 23 days. Not even in the shower.
When The Cat had finished, I asked why he empathized with The Songbird as he did. After a moderate pause, he replied that he had his own story to tell, but he had told it once to The Songbird and sternly believed that that had been enough.
I completely understood.
Masturbation isn't an act of desperation; it is merely self-sufficiency.
Do you think pieces of paper are manufactured with the explicit knowledge of what will be scratched on them?
I once saw a small songbird riding on a cat. When I inquired to how it had earned such a privilege, The Cat cleared its throat to tell a story while The Songbird tucked its head into its prismatic wing. On a cloudy night, The Cat began, The Songbird left his seclusive nest, mate and ovums to find supplies to fix a spontaneous hole. He labored to find the strongest sticks and made no haste. But by the time he had come back his nest was empty. In his absence, his dwelling had been attack by a predator and his entire family slain. His helpmate's distinctive feathers laid scattered underneath dispersed egg fragments. And The Cat had laid witness to the last chaotic moments. Ever since that night, The Songbird was filled with such grief that he could no longer sing cheerfully, or at all, as he had before. And his spirit was so low that he could no longer soar high in the sky, as he had before.
After I heard that story, I couldn't sing for 23 days. Not even in the shower.
When The Cat had finished, I asked why he empathized with The Songbird as he did. After a moderate pause, he replied that he had his own story to tell, but he had told it once to The Songbird and sternly believed that that had been enough.
I completely understood.