Tumultuous air, and I caught myself striving for extraneous validation.

Hours toiled the clock and I was left with some sort of lost whistle to the direction perceived. This direction calling from the heart of all that is woes. Attachment, inundated by the prospect that perhaps, we are healing. Disjointed and dysfunctional. Erratic. Yet, at the end of the day. My virtue may be complicated, even borderline complacent. Though, I find this trickle of hope. A sweet honeyed stream of nectar that chooses just the right viscosity like the smoothest bourbon ever poured down one’s throat.

Seedy correlations, seedy ancestry.

Is everyone so accomplished at this table?