Thanks: For 2013

Now the process whizzes, the fold rather shallow, the alternating suspense-fizz fleeting like I see the game in depth as shown by my age and soberness. The paining tethered soberness just perceives the play yet sprightly but fleeting now. The impact heavier as per the cost of this blind illusion that has been haunting like a shadowy spell whose bewitching  cast ghostly creepy and sneaky. The voice I can hear for my inadequacy that rumbles before a second such cast so beguiling, so soothing, so painful. And I heard the same voice when I went through your writing today. It is enshrined there. Thanks, I could see it at least, the cost of this illusion—the demanding note pummeled it all black and blue but still there, the eternal obstinacy, the root of ruination. By just clutching the organ of this huge folly I mimic a sort of discovery but mere farce, mere sham. It is just, as I found now, speedier to reach the abyssal paroxysm marked by fiery fury to debilitation. But I saw what really flows from this gullible obstinacy, just like a closer glimpse this time that’s a gift for me. Thanks.