Without why

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You will notice that there is no philosophy. No purpose. Nothing to lay your hands, or hang your hat on. Nothing to make 'sense' of, in any ordinary sense. Only random, exotic, and exquisite fruits, to sink your teeth in to. To saturate your tongue under the flavours of. To magnify your mind under the microscope of. To telescope your tastes in appreciation of. To soothe your soul with the salience, and radiances of. But to block your mind from an attachment to. Language, purely, as the lustre of love's loom. Like a constellation, there is no singular starting point. Yet all points form the whole, and illuminate the source. The air, is a million molecules of freedom. Breath, is a trillion prayers of unreason

A warm bath of cool air. These feather folds and pleasure pleats. The new in tow and the old in crease. Crystal marmalade vetiver beads. Diamond pâtés drenched in tease. Scentigrade everglade for lemonthrob leash. It's as if all the colours of rainbow paint were whipped up cream and birthday drape, and tassel~tied to pearlescent matter and swirled into shapes so vast and deep that your eyes could caress in nameless flatter, and pooled into lakes and oceans so miracle that your ears could taste in lyrical sweet the melody's mood in marigold lather