Words on pages that days our minutes, these are the lives we breath. I jump up with eagerness thoughts they feel me. I used to attempt to control them. Which is first to the last? I cannot do all but once.
Knock someone may be waiting. Long not for love lost. Linger on to the piano call. The sounds that echo through the night. Of romance that is worth the fight. Pretty little thing twirl on to that dream.
Laughter only waits for those willing to catch her. Whimsy as my great aunt tells me is the imagination that never grows old. Rather youth is the possession of never letting seriousness dampen light. Rework fate until shifts fly off into the sky.