So many seeds have been cast near and far. The time has come for verdant dreams to bring a deep sense of the tangible. Spirit guides have been along for the ride, but now they must rest their weary dogs and let Tansy transcribe this mystical roadmap. Monuments to mindlessness populate the barren terrain; dust has a place on her palette. Tansy plays a plaintive chord of would-be's / ought-nots / evermore to navigate by an unreachable shore. Cutting corners only leaves holes in Tansy's story that cannot be filled with truth or lies. A gaping wound at the center of the Universe, oblivion is comfortable if one sets down ground rules and checks all measurements. As with blood, Tansy tends to stick to her own type.
I can't vouch for anyone but myself. Survival is Reinvention. Reinvention is Survival. I no longer need to pretend this experience means more than simply showing me the door.
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