It is what split personality sounds like eyes rolling the dreams usurping your shadow the symmetric valley of pillaring and Pythagorus is only flown by the wildest. Only an illusion of dullness remains, though nothing remains for all simply is. That I cannot sit with my soul abiding my silly breath and unclench the index and thumb around wells of apparition in language I know it is not peace but I know nothing. To simply be is the greatest triumph. Bellose mouth, I can make words in loving form, echtor of tree and earth, relative to petrichor, the smell of earth after rain. Suffused matter of shadow is what it comprises within itself.