hedonisticnihil

Sometimes life comes at me with tragedy piled on tragedy. Regardless of what choice I seem to make somekind of blood is spilled either literally or figuratively. I feel beated not until submission, no that would be to kind by life, but rather acceptance. I wait for the next turn of events with dread. I ask, "what's next?" Sometime laughter hides in every action, ready to bloom at the slightest bit of subtle bliss. It seems that I do is not perfect, but rather, even better. I mean what I say, and say what I mean. It is appearant in that moment, but all moments in the past and future. I feel serpendipity framed with participation I wait for the next turn of events with ecstasy. I ask, "what's next?"

May you never stop asking, "what's next?"