CIRCUITOUS
Nope, not at all. My heart is not so crooked or twisted; it is scrawny, or pathetic enough—but is not that notch of retards` perversion or venality.
There`s something that I could not explain. And maybe I could rip open my heart with annoyance to think how we are diminutively skilled of impelling the mindsets of each other. No one can converse to me those ambiances of love, joy, rhapsody, and satisfaction that I do not intuitively seize—and, at the same time, along, laterally, my emotion burns with the sprightliest affection, in its liveliest form—than when I`m conversing with you.
There`s something that I could not explain. And maybe I could rip open my heart with annoyance to think how we are diminutively skilled of impelling the mindsets of each other. No one can converse to me those ambiances of love, joy, rhapsody, and satisfaction that I do not intuitively seize—and, at the same time, along, laterally, my emotion burns with the sprightliest affection, in its liveliest form—than when I`m conversing with you.
Oh, well—drab! Perhaps I can only hope to make the ecstasy of someone in whom
the identical love is not intrinsic; but I can move mountains and can grab
stars. I do not underestimate fate.