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Letter of Perfection

In the summer, I saw a beautiful message encrypting through the nerves of a shallow mindset. It was bright and warm, people were unclad seeking the liberation form shyness. Fear was fading away from the agony of childbirth. Hope was around even in the rope of a suicidal belt. I saw the message, creeping through the eyes of a being - I have never seen such a being before. It's nerves were thick, protruding as if the veins were about to burst. It looked like an archipelago, a tattoo withdrawn from the touch of human race. The encryption was subtle, the mind was shallow. Shallow in the marshy labyrinth of grey cells, the cells which claimed to be an archetypal nauseating hydroma. I was withdrawn, I stayed away from the cupidity of  curiosity. Encryption, be it in the pretext of fear or anger, it wasn't in sync with my desire for freedom. I quit, I fret to the fright of a superior intellect, that would quintisimally withdraw from the intuition of liquidity.

I saw the children, four or five, and their mother smiling at my insane pride of fulfillment. She fed them as they saw me dancing to the tune of languish-nous, soups upon soup, I could see her swirling the bottom of a hot pot - somewhere on earth, seduced by my smile.

What do I decipher from this picturistic perfection. Is that the salivary ejection to the tune of the yellow soup or my nerdiness to the approval of the conjunction of stillness. I do not know, I do not know answer for all - lest I wouldn't have fret to the fright of the superior intellect. Yet I know, she was content with her flesh, content with her kids, content with the yellow soup boiling in the hot pot of shining steel, content with the blue apron she wears, and content with my seductive smile. It wasn't money, it wasn't even a kiss, it was that _____ for the sake of one's own genes.