The Confusion of 204,
now simply 88
        In musing over the valley, I heard the sounding.  Some baritone, some shrill.  Some annoy, and others, somewhat.  Little mammalian squirrels, scampering about upon the grass of the valley in some bizzare shadow dance.  The trees tails shall draw close.  A registered thought, some stow for the night.
         
         I'd been called hapless, in pursuit of a different persons gains.  However, it is the Spirit of the Creator, the everywhere sky of which I exist.  The different person's aspect, a mere spec in time. 
         
         Day or night, it's round and round, equally captivating with or without light.  Thinking and thought of the passage of time as a disinfectant image, hidden in form, like zillions beyond compare.  A form hidden even in form, and once, and everywhere.
        
         The difference in seeing oneself masturbate in a mirror and comprehending the meaning of one's inner, mental masturbation.
        
         My personalized form being other than some Earth sphere bound bird, soaring in appearance amongst the clouds.  Deliverer of rain and lightning, bringing thunderclaps and hail.
         I know its divisions, for my feet too were in squishy mud. 


         And I heard, "Stuck with a Post It."  Simple as 1, 2, 3.  How bookworms reproduce.  An acute angle, self reflection within my mind.
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