It is a letter that never sleeps, one
that dismisses eager dreams and angers beautiful weeds--the kind
that strives through the sidewalk crack searching for prominence, but
is ridiculed for its foliage, never worthy of the caustic examination
of the Blue Giant, the blinding ball of flowing plasma. The letter is
a reminder that it conceives its end, its torture, like words that
puncture caves sprawled on the corners of its smile and tears, caves
that fail to provide their banquet of acceptance and change, changing
seasons that sharpen leafs, causing desolation, never satisfying
dreadful desires. Extremely cold and fiercely scorching, mild never
turns its glare. Broken into several hermetic chunks of death,
confused and disoriented they fair. What of men who blindly cast rods
of impulsive bravery for the sake of their heart's inclination? What
of women, powerful women, who rejoice at the letter's splendid
invitation? Make of a weed a fruit that resembles a mist, that calms
the soul and loosens tightly bound fists. Even the flowers of such
creatures are ignored; however, the product of such a flower is a
fruit that never did exist..
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