Heath held cadence for that what was. Fleeting thoughts cascading from redundant decadences, he couldn't get over the disparity, heathered incongruent to what was. His own ideations had enveloped themselves internally leading to the precedent of his own mind. The mind of the unconscious, not his own. Those grown older have lost the feeling of sensating in the things they don't know. Heath thought that that, that was all there is, but he didn't know that that was all there was. He just can't keep up. He proceeds himself with fragmented truths that incrementally increase the nebulous as they're discovered. He's partaken in transparent anonymity.
Those imperfections in here eye. For five minutes, everything was ok.
Heath thought that emotions existed on their own. Natural but not natural to us. They precede the temporal abstractions of what is, our essence converging with perception of existence. There's so much more to emotion, but the ones we feel are the only ones we're capable of digesting as humans. Spontaneity that makes the physical feel oblique. Heath wants to feel the full spectrum of emotion, each emotion accentuating the other. He doesn't want to be in constant contentment, he just wants to be in "it".
Sometimes nothing's wrong, you're just not ok.
The indoctrinated macabre is insincere to those looking for what lies in the not. Heath feels erratic. He knows that identity is a facade, constructed to make use of people. The closest there will ever be to an identity is at emergence, when there's no preconceptions or notions. No conception of the relationship between shapes, and the facade of space between others and it. Space is omnipresent, not ambivalent. The euclidian transparences is merely gratifying validation, something in itself should have no connotation. Everything is merely connotated. The convergence of emotions, ambiguity, individuality, and identity is disheveled through connotations. Heath can't think.
Some music ought to do.
The things you haven't had are the only things you own. Heath knew this for a fact. He didn't need intellectual reasoning. Discourse is mere suggestion to him. Nearly everything in a conversation is an approximation. Perpetually leading others to what we want them to say. In constant prelection with ones self. It's connotated. The extrapolation of the same thought over and over leads to the concept of discourse when juxtaposed to reality, it's embedded in that language doesn't contain verbiage. Language isn't articulated at any moment. The moments containing each transferal of evanescence can never be replicated. Constant emulation of irreplicable moments leads to the mantra of everything being a disingenuous approximation. We can't digest contingency in the hyper-accelerated speed of the derma-sphere, we merely just pretend, convincing ourselves it is. That's why something feels off to him.
There's something missing. There's always been something missing.
Heath looks away pretending she isn't staring. Look at her. The somber look she emanates. She looks at him understanding what she doesn't. She gives him no empathy since she knows he doesn't want any, which is empathetic in itself.
She's good. Heath knows she's good.
He convolutes his mind simply to connotate simplicity.
He looks back at her. They will share a silence.
They share a silence.
They shared a silence.
He understands that she doesn't. She understands that he does understand doesn't. He doesn't understand that. Maybe she can teach him.
