In the silence of screaming thoughts are the echoes of my voice
Through impulses of inspiration was encountered with the idleness once I fought
Muted nights, strumming stings, quiet chords...
Breeze-less room, glass half full, dimmed ceiling lights... the persistent buzz of the refrigerator.
As the observing spectator like a sponge absorbs. Consciously hoarding to purposeful attachment, inadvertently declaring to perceive it all.
Unpretentious, Unaware, Unpredictable
Not prepared
Lies the question...
Where are we headed now?
Nanda
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