A Meditation on Adaptation(s)

I

The desire to write sometimes accorded itself at lonely hours. The one that pervades grievous soul, looming over the reverb of oneself denying fear of being misunderstood by the very self.

Malentendu.

Habits now embed themselves comfortably. One, in fact feels a sense of discomfort for not performing an act to prolong the immortal existence. A life carefully measured with selective taste.

How much, how long. How adequate. How salty. How sweet.

Every measure, every distance repetitively appraised for its definitive sensation.

II

Cerebral music that demands an unconscious mind to attend to each mundane task, correcting, verifying, making each consistently uniform.

III

Deliberations you and I couldn't afford, to examine life in idealism, the preponderance of prudent imagination, the unconformist wisdom - strenuous.

IV
All alone.