I continue in my volatile venue to design patterns of language

Under the same conditions I’m hopeless or sanguine – depending on the hour

Edgy, sour, laborious fruit devoured and followed by those catching wind of my flute

Rare growth when a rarity blossoms it astounds and puts to shame materialistic crowns

Information processed by a mind without a choice if it’s awake

Disinclined to winding down

Too cagey to gauge we with precision unless at the same time we drop our suspicions

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