Marking time in pencil strokes across a virgin page and waiting for coincidence of heart-beat and second-hand, keying to the electronic blips that phase the passing time; visionary states of grace do not deluge to stupefy a mounting conscience, prescience would ease the wait and melt the phlegm of apprehension clotted in the membranes of my mind.
Flirting either side of double-edged consequence is guileless, but pensive pleasures thrill the senses, dull the pain of wounds unopened sure as self-indulgence soothes the same away. Sensations which dispose tumescence drown the psyche in a viscous spate, arousing urges out of circumstance; there is no relief from anguish, but even pain anticipated heightens senses in disdain.
Tautologies are offered as responses to the questions never asked in tactful, secretive connivance after motives equally evident and equally unmasked. This is the razor of decision slashing with discretion every way one turns with precisely measured precedent; covert wounds that sap conspired vitality traumatise each act of mute consent, Inaction is not ominous, paralysis invites survival of the spirit without an end in sight.