It may be your abilities, and not what your abilities have placed upon you. I cannot look to the face that he is. How can you look upon my existence with a nonchalant high? It seemed as though we could make nothing of it, but in realism a better bough. An extension of you, that is the longing I sore of. Maybe for the best, I do contend, but not as if I wanted it to be. How you can say so much and mean nothing of it. How the world is implied, in a rosemary of sorts, and a parsing ache. Your obsessions delve themselves to your side, to your feathering whims. And at a caustic trifle, a sound is made. The sound of your life, in a twenty second abated interval. I hear it trudging along, dreading itself, and at a far sighted plea I leer upon a grin. A fateful sigh, and I relic upon you a rye expression of dull adherence. I acknowledge your presence and with a muddle you disgrace mine. Am I not the person that my words condone?