everything beautiful never begins at the surface.

i feel i have something attaching to the wake and quake of oncoming, foreboding  pressure building at it's expectancy. do you ever wonder if the bud of a flower at the conception of it's bloom is not in pain before the actual point of it's unfurl?...

there is something beautiful about blossoming in silent seclusion. away from the peaks and valleys  and arrow-like, intentions of others. away from their test tube experiments, before there is any time for true maturation. a silent peak into conception, is like a stolen glimpse into galaxies within a person being formed.

i'm feeling the p[leausrable] uninhinbited, unconfined point of it's unfurl...

and no one can wake me from this sleep, and dislodge me from this intensive saturation