The way the rules are written, in blood and scent and flesh, we are drawn along intersecting lines, our hearts parabolas flung at mortal speeds with glacial arcs, the transom of meager moments the whole of our selves suspended. Attraction wanes as repulsion waxes, these seething satellite's ellipses tattooed in these smiles and snarls. Beauty weighs in, its staggering mass belayed by its whispered manifestation, its whole argument contained mostly in our limber and willing souls. Strange how distance completes this circuit, how these laws coalesce, emerging intact from the argot of contingency, from the wavering tongue of chance. Strange how knowing the forces at work upon the structure does so little to remand the stressors. How puppets twitch just as fervently, witnessing their strings. Drawn in with-in the yellowed margins, the plans never stop the roots and blooms from believing they are free.
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