One Minute Truth

    Let me paint a picture. Not really a picture but a catch, mound and mold of particles I capture with my yearning hand, of this scene, I so, so regain every once in while. This yearning hand screams at the importance of the temperature. Imagine a temperature of walking enfolded, comfortably wrapped, of a blanket puffed out of the inoffensive oven, only to care for you and much better -- with your love. With the addition of snowlike pretend of a wind. Then that balance of an after cry, a weird homeostasis, to know that you know comfort before pain. That is that temperature. Call that exact White Temperature. No hues pulling to one side of blue or orange. It is the white you have known instinctively. 

    With that white, remember that. Remember it with your heart. It is divine because God gifts you this threadlike movements inside you. The threadlike connections, that learns you while you learn them. God gifts you this imagination. And I used to murk it with that immature build name: Hotel Jazz. It is Hotel Jazz. The things about shakes and death, this picture calls out to you more. As the Psychologists calls you in big screams, mundane and calms that the sounds of your cry, ah, coping mechanism. Remind you, it is Hotel Jazz.

I hum, like a priori of a song; I think of concrete and engine. Like an alive of a breathe, rattle of a death, purring of a cat. Concrete and engine; it is a funny casket. Funny casket I've allowed myself in without thinking twice. For once, is a belief system I just had set. It could be another Hotel Jazz. I could joke myself. It is a funny casket anyway.

    This place also have different lightings, like a different swipe to the skin from your love. (Oh, do you search for that every time? In every --