the lost man chronicles
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ode to the wonder of words

Words. reflecting upon their empowerment, i am in utter awe of their power. This last year words made me more than i have ever been—more of a man, more of a woman, more human, more humane, more bestial, more insane, more maniacal, more mythical, and more than once—more divine.

Without stooping to think too much about where i was headed and where i might find myself next, i hopped onto the magic carpet ride of words many a time, and was whimsically whisked away on adventures which were fantastic, mad, wonderful, enlightening, and occasionally, some of my greatest moments of bliss.

Wow. And to think all of them and this and all those and these moments were enthusiastically shared—and shining, dared, as well as stolen fragments of time intertwined into a single soul of understanding, a lonely hole where two hid and disappeared into the mystery of the sublime, reemerging rearranged, reaffirmed, rejuvenated, reborn, revived, and reconstituted once again as two wholly separate individuals.

Pow! What a punch words have. And to know not a single adverse gesture, threatening allusion, or overtly pushy phrase ever glazed across them their eyes—for She never seemed surprised by my poor epistolary attempts of persuasion, sincere supplications to rise or prostrate oneself spontaneously to the occasion with the humblest part or wholly wrought hubris of me.

Wonderfully, those dilated pools always gleaned the excitement of the enchanting possibilities i proposed, reflecting in their repose the reassuring positive energy given over to the abandon of the moment.

Women. Oh, how inspiring was the one and only woman who owned the hour, the overflowing flower of efflorescent, effervescent, blubbering and earnest flattery that my two eyes and two ears, ten lingering fingers and twelve tickling toes, as well as the singular savoring tongue, piqued nose, fluttering heart and rapt mind ever gave themselves up to as paltry offerings of my personal greatitude (great gratitude) and willing, if not wiling, sacrifice to the muse.

Words, it is right to lose oneself to them.

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