Painting melting back into brush. Pastels rushing back into gush. Rocks undusting back into crush. Lust unpacking back into hush. Needle head push and finger tip prick. Saturn's violet-ice ultra-rink shift. Rest we on the astral days bulletin rift. Post-It Note votes in vivid-kitsch thickets. Sound is just night in mistletoe crickets

Rushing into the mystic

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I know you think you’re no one at all. But not at all doll. You play a pivotal mysterious part. You are a key and crucial component. You fill the requisite role resplendently. You complete the celestial collage. You are not a missing piece. You are the found and flourishing fortune. The entire chart of blossoming clouds. The sound spectrum of colour and light. The oceanic gulf of air in space. The full sonogram of stars and sky. The primal pattern of flowers and lace. You can think of about a billion more branches and leaves to say. In about a trillion more drenched and delicious ways. And that’s just with the tip of perpendicular time. That doesn’t include a proper touch or fit of the vast of today’s or tomorrow’s pink fusion beret, on your holy head of kneelless bend and wildlife pray