Topical hypothesis: a simple flower is naturally sincere (and profound) in a way no words can ever truly depict. I can not capture such authenticity but words can still (enigmatically) manage to successfully render my failure to do so; I wonder what this says about words, about communication and about minds. The Object of fascination or desire might be in some way transcendental by virtue of its intransigence to submit to accurate depiction in any language or logic. Every beautiful thing (and mind or person) I have ever known has been like this in some way. An ineffable beauty in things at the very least provides curvature, orbit and direction for this existential free fall of living…

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