No tongue wood

 You know we don't know just thought. Yes we were. Why? Without knowing you leave me unconscious of myself. To not go anywhere restoration. You leave me without free will. Without rhyme or reason. No love in the guts. No tongue wood. Dumb under the shock of the fertile imagination, it ruins lives. From surprises around corners, around suspicion, in the corner of the night, to the anguish of the orange patio, to the sustained silence of the long journey, to continuous despair, and more and more, a continuum without waiting, that time folded into its own dimension, time that from time to time opens up letting some of its untranslatable pieces escape.