Yet, I surmise, I’m subjective. Selectively enclosed in a soft shell of a shrine I’ve studied for years–shuddering amongst the lies of myself and others.
Silence is suggestive, occasionally, and I surround myself with sorrowful shadows of past and present, salacious endeavors.
And, I still surmise, I’m sensationally objective . Serenading the symbols and symptoms which… statistically leave me single.