60 seconds… go…my head feels clear, mainly because I have no expectations. Whatever spills out of my fingers will have to be good enough, there is no quality control. We             are going with honesty, intensity and most importantly timeliness. Strange how I detect certain burning sensations in my extremities. It is as if, my insides are trying to save me         from the very freedoms that they enlist. There can not be trust for the verse, no matter what the reason. As smothering as the nurturer can often be, in nature we are mostly good, yet in contempt… self serving all the time. But now, there is no room for additional input, only a mossed covered fence herding the cold vapor, in line for the next espousal. Today’s sublimation…the unfurling of the palm. A pin prick reminding that all lives do not flow through, instead we flow away. That is our birthright and also our cue to flee the scene. Just like the words that leap upon my laptop, they do not require a boost or  a constriction, only a theme. 60 seconds to commencement, portrait of a weaning. Coming to a postcard near you, whether you are aware of it or not. Who wants out? Feel the discoloration and let us know. Washed out and unabated…we shall reproduce on our own… only then shall we return, ready to be enabled once again.