Pick a flower, any flower

I’ve been guilty of living just to survive. I’ve broken much including countless sweats when I had no means left upon which to validate my ticket to live life by another’s standards. Dante didn’t write a consequential vision he saw with Virgil, but of the place our day to day drudgery propagates. A life of servitude to the notion of survival is full of shit compared to a life of living among the humdrum.

Show me a sick and withering flower and I will heal it. Show me a vine of grapes and I will show you how I will turn water into wine. Show me a field of grass and I will show you how I walk on water. Show me a matter of fact and I will show you magic carried in the wind. And you bet that sweet ass of yours it’ll be a good show. Buk always said it was hard to be surprised once you’ve already seen hell. It’s that little pattern that I used to convince myself was the beanstalk of which to climb. This is the secret I’m not allowed to share because there isn’t much room on the bus, and frankly, my sisters and I don’t believe you’ve got the mind to stowaway to paradiso.

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