The urge towards the Buddha had taken root. You figured your mind was no good being awol, and needed to be summoned and harnessed for you to have any chance at a liberated life. So you awaken your body that your mind may be inspired in turn. But your mind was inebriated in a pall of drowsiness unbecoming of an aspiring activist. It reached out for the glowing point emblazoning the occula-natal intersection, but what could the point do but swim hazily in protest against your stupor.
You burst into a dry panic; lost hopes and dying causes were reprising themselves with pent-up fury. Later, in desolation you would sit, curled up into a farce of an embrace, trying to recall the forgotten sensation of the precious convalescent fluid which, possibly, you had spilt into naught via a lowlier duct. You vow to take better care of your vital fluids, so that they may feel you worthy and deserving of being immersed.
The bow-legged charmer was sighted at the station, trying to be ignored by your reclusive consciousness. She walked past, then sidled up to you. You essayed your poker face, you hoped, to some avail; but the nightly exuberance was but a shadow of itself in the blinding twilight. Your habitual dumbness came over you and you chided the charmer on the pretext of chiding yourself. Deathly references pointed hamfisted fingers upon smoky graves in a jaded flail for the taste of a kindred spirit. She would turn out to be a truer you than you, and you felt shunted out of yourself.
There's so much more, but isn't all this already simply precious?
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